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EUsabetb  Xutber  Cari? 

Tennyson.  His  Homes,  His  Friends,  and  His 
Work.  With  1 8  illustrations  in  photogravure, 
and  some  other  illustrations.  Large  8°,  $3.75 
Popular  Editioji,  illustrated,  8°  .     ,     . 

Browning,  Poet  and  Man.  A  Survey.  With 
25  illustrations  in  photogravure,  and  some 
other  illustrations.  Large  8°  .  .  ,  $3.75 
Popular  Edition,  illustrated,  8°  .     .     . 

The  Rossettis  :    Dante  Gabriel  and  Christina. 

With  27  illustrations  in  photogravure,  and 
some  other  illustrations.  Large  8°  .  $3.75 
Popular  Edition,  illustrated,  8°  .     .     . 


G.  P.  PUTNAM'S  SONS 

NEW  YORK  &  LONDON 


BROWNING 


.■^\\\V\');<V\^' 


LISABE 

i.vTnrr 


Robert  B ran  fling. 

From  the  fainting  hv  Ins  son,   188^. 


GIFT  OP 

Copyright,    iSqq 

BY 

G.  P.  PUTNAM'S  SONS 

Entered  r.t  Stationers'  Hall,  London 

Set  up  and  electrotyped  December,  i8qg. 
Reprinted  June,  igoi  ;  January,  1902. 


^bc  Ibnichcrbochcr  press,  IRcw  l?or1? 


p^ 


AUTHOR'S  PREFACE. 

IN  calling  this  book  a  ''survey"  I  have  meant  to 
indicate  the  absence  of  any  attempt  at  throw- 
ing new  light  upon  Browning's  already  strongly 
illuminated  work.  I  have  used  the  word  in  its  lit- 
eral sense  to  express  my  intention  of  merely  ''  look- 
ing over "  the  ground  covered  by  his  life  and  poetry, 
and  the  place  the  two  seem  to  have  occupied  in  the 
generation  to  which  he  belonged. 

I  have  laid  more  stress  upon  criticisms  by  other 
than  upon  my  personal  views,  holding,  with  the 
Rev.  Mr.  Ingham,  that  where  ''so  much  has  been 
said,  and  that  so  well  said,"  1  could  add  little  of 
value;  but  in  sifting  the  mass  of  critical  material  that 
has  gathered  about  Browning's  poetry,  1  have,  of 
course,  been  influenced  by  my  own  impression  of 
him  as  well  as  by  the  authority  of  the  critic. 

When  the  adequate  biography  appears,  it  should 

be  a  very  interesting  book,  answering  a  demand  to 

which  mine  is  not  directed  ;  but  if  I  strengthen  in 

any  degree  the  feeling  that  Browning's  poetry  is  to 

be  read  like  that  of  other  poets,  not  as  a  task  but  for 

the  reader's  pleasure,  I  shall  be  content. 

E.  L  C. 


^9^^880 


/'■^ 


CONTENTS. 


CHAPTER 

I.— Ancestry  and  Youth     . 

. 

PAGE 

I 

II.- 

— Pauline,  Paracelsus,  and  Sordello 

17 

III.- 

—The  Dramas   .... 

40 

IV.- 

—Elizabeth  Barrett 

64 

V.- 

—Married  Life. 

90 

VI.- 

—Browning's  Men  and  Women 

105 

-VII.- 

—Ethical  Teaching  . 

122 

VIII.- 

—Italy 

139 

IX.- 

—Poems  on  Music  and  Painting 

159 

X.- 

-Later  Life       .... 

186 

XI.- 

-Opinions  of  Contemporaries  . 

211 

XII.- 

-French  Criticisms  . 

234 

XIII.- 

—Browning  Societies 

259 

ILLUSTRATIONS. 

Page 

Robert  Browning       .        .        .       Frontispiece 

From  the  painting  by  his  son,  i88^. 

Robert  Browning 6 

From  a  drawing  from  life  by  J.  JV.  Alexander. 

Robert  Browning  as  a  Young  Man  .        .        ,      jo 

From  an  engraving  by  J.  C.  Armytage. 

Robert  Browning 


From  the  painting  by  Rudolf  Lehmann,  in  the  National  Portrait 
Gallery,  London. 


J^ 


Elizabeth  Barrett  Browning      .        ...      64 

From  a  painting  in  the  National  Portrait  Gallery,  London. 

Robert  Browning 74 


Alfred,  Lord  Tennyson,  18^9  .        .        .        -94 

By  G.  F.  IVatts,  R.A. 

John  Morley 98 

Robert  Browning 114 

From  Life. 

Robert  Lowe,  Lord  Sherbrooke  ....  /jo 

Pitti  Palace,  Florence       .        .        .        .        .  140 


viii  miuetrations. 

Page 

Church  of  the  Salute,  Venice  ....  146 

Environs  of  San  Domenico  and  View  of  Fiesole  .  168 

View  of  Florence  from  the  Belfry  of  San  Spirito.  186 

The  Grand   Canal,   Venice,  showing  Cavalli 

Palace,  and  the  Church  of  the  Salute      .  206 

Robert  Browning  in  Middle  Life      .        .        .  236 

Robert  Browning 2^6 

From  a  photograph  taken  a  few  days  before  his  last  illness. 


BROWNING 


CHAPTER  I. 
ANCESTRY  AND  YOUTH. 

UNLIKE  Byron,  Shelley,  and  Wordsworth,  and 
like  Keats,  Browning  is  connected  by  his 
ancestry  with  what  are  called  the  lower 
classes  of  society.  The  earliest  ancestor  found  for 
him  through  Dr.  Furnivall's  researches  is  Robert 
Browning  I.,  born  before  1700,  and  "  ultimately  head 
butler  to  Sir  John  Bankes,  of  Corfu  Castle,"  in  Dor- 
setshire. Interesting  as  it  might  be  to  emphasise 
this  lineage  in  order  to  honour  an  obscure  calling,  it 
must  be  remembered  that  in  1700  the  old  ideals  of 
domestic  service  had  not  entirely  died  out ;  the  no- 
tion of  degradation  in  connection  with  it  coming  in 
with  the  Revolution  of  1688.^  Before  that  time  are 
numerous  examples  of  servants  of  good  family  who 
were  related  to  their  employers.^  Nothing  seems  to 
be  known  of  Robert  Browning  I.,  save  that  he  was 

'  See  Notes  and Qiieries,  6th  S.,  IV.,  August  6,  '8i,  page  in. 

^  In  the  Parish  of  Wedmore  County,  Somerset,  is  the  record  of  the  death  on  1 1 
April,  1517,  of  "Anna  Browninge  Cognata  et  famula  Richard!  Browninge,"  prob- 
ably no  connection  of  the  eighteenth-century  Browning,  but  not  necessarily  of  better 
birth.     {Notes  and  Queries.) 

I 


2  ISrowniiiG. 

buried  in  woollen,  a  fact  recorded  in  the  Pentridge 
Registers  and  reminiscent  of  the  old  "  Act  for  Bury- 
ing in  Woollen  onely,"  framed  "for  the  Encourage- 
ment of  the  Woolen  Manufactures  of  the  Kingdome." 
His  son  Thomas  was  an  innkeeper,  holding  the  lease 
of  Woodyates  Inn,  on  the  London,  Dorchester,  and 
Exeter  Road.  Following  Thomas  came  four  Roberts 
in  direct  succession,  including  the  poet's  son.  The  line 
of  Roberts  has,  in  fact,  been  unbroken  through  the 
six  generations,  Thomas  having  had  a  brother  Robert 
who  died  in  childhood. 

The  poet's  grandfather  was  a  clerk  in  the  Bank 
of  England  for  over  fifty  years.  Browning  describes 
him  as  "  an  old  gentleman  with  his  gouty  leg  tucked 
up  on  a  chair,  much  more  anxious  that  his  grandson 
should  n't  get  near  his  toe,  than  delighted  to  see  the 
budding  author."  In  1778  he  married  Margaret  Tit- 
tle, a  Creole  born  in  the  West  Indies.  The  word 
*' Creole,"  as  applied  in  the  West  Indies,  is  defined 
as  now  meaning  ''  any  person,  animal,  or  thing,  born 
or  grown  in  a  hot  Western  colony,"  the  birthplace  of 
the  parents  being  no  longer  of  any  importance,  and 
no  distinction  being  made  between  white  and  black 
blood. ^  Dr.  Furnivall  emphasises  the  possibility,  to 
him  "the  certainty,"  that  Browning's  grandmother 
had  dark  blood  in  her,  and  suggests  that  this  may 
have  had  something  to  do  with  Mr.  Barrett's  unjust- 
ifiable aversion  to  his  daughter's  marriage,  he  being 
himself  a  West  Indian  estate-owner.     In  view  of 

*  See  Dr.  Furnivall's  essay  on  Browning's  ancestry. 


Bncestr^  anb  l^outb.  3 

Mr.  Barrett's  uniform  attitude  on  the  subject  of  mar- 
riage for  his  children  (as  fully  explained  in  Mr.  Ken- 
yon's  Letters  of  Mrs.  Browning),  the  suggestion  can 
hardly  be  accepted. 

Browning's  father  was  also  a  bank  clerk,  serving 
nearly  as  long  as  the  grandfather,  but  not  attaining 
to  so  high  a  post.  He  had  scholarly  tastes,  and  a 
variety  of  accomplishments,  chief  among  them  an 
ability  to  draw  in  a  spirited  fashion  with  very  sug- 
gestive treatment  of  line,  as  the  recently  published 
caricatures  by  him  fully  testify.  His  grandson,  Mr. 
Robert  Barrett  Browning,  says  that  he  used  to  draw 
in  the  evening  "  for  the  amusement  of  friends  and 
young  people,  of  whom  he  was  particularly  fond." 
He  drew  very  rapidly,  and  kept  it  up,  purely  as 
an  amusement,  to  the  end  of  his  life.  He  used  for 
his  materials  whatever  came  in  his  way,  ''  old  pen- 
cil-ends and  scraps  of  paper — even  pebbles  on  the 
seashore."  His  grandson  adds  that  he ''never  pre- 
tended to  be  an  artist,  although  he  knew  all  the 
bones  and  muscles  of  the  human  body,  their  form  as 
well  as  their  names,  by  heart,"  and  was  "fond  of 
drawing  skeletons  and  skulls."'  From  some  remi- 
niscences by  his  brother  Reuben  we  get  an  idea  of 
his  bookishness,  which  was  not  at  all  of  the  dryas- 
dust  character.  "  The  love  of  reading  attached  him 
by  sympathy  to  books,"  his  brother  writes;  "old 
books  were  his  delight,  and,  by  his  continual  search 

'  See  article  on  "  Robert  Browning,  the  Elder,  as  a  Caricaturist,"  by  F.  G.  Kitton; 
The  Art  Journal. 


4  Browning. 

after  them,  he  not  only  knew  all  the  old  bookstalls  in 
London,  but  their  contents,  and  if  any  scarce  work 
were  spoken  of,  he  could  tell  forthwith  where  a  copy 
of  it  could  be  had  —  nay,  he  would  even  describe  in 
what  part  of  the  shop  it  was  placed,  and  the  price 
likely  to  be  asked  for  it.  Thus  his  own  library  be- 
came his  treasure.  His  books,  however,  were  con- 
fessedly not  remarkable  for  costly  binding,  but  for 
their  rarity  or  for  some  interesting  remarks  he  had  to 
make  on  most  of  them  ;  and  his  memory  was  so  good 
that  not  unfrequently,  when  a  conversation  at  his 
table  had  reference  to  any  particular  subject,  has  he 
quietly  left  the  room,  and  in  the  dark,  from  a  thousand 
volumes  in  his  library,  brought  two  or  three  illustrat- 
ive of  the  point  under  discussion.'" 

It  has  also  been  said  of  him  that  his  detective 
faculty  amounted  to  genius,  and  another  story  which, 
though  not  very  significant,  seems  to  be  valued  by 
his  chroniclers,  affirms  that  he  always  walked  to  and 
from  the  bank,  and  during  his  long  service  was  only 
once  late ;  that  being  on  the  morning  of  the  execu- 
tion of  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Manning,  when  he  could  not  get 
through  the  crowd  in  the  Borough  Road. 

In  the  poem  "Development"  is  a  picture,  that 
cannot  be  improved  upon,  of  the  relations  between 
father  and  son  during  the  first  impressionable  years 
of  the  poet's  life  : 

My  Father  was  a  scholar  and  knew  Greek. 
When  I  was  five  years  old,  I  asked  him  once 

*  See  The  Art  Journal,  February,  1896. 


ancestry  an^  l^outb.  5 

"  What  do  you  read  about  ?  " 

"The  siege  of  Troy." 
"What  is  a  siege  and  what  is  Troy  ?  " 

Whereat 
He  piled  up  chairs  and  tables  for  a  town, 
Set  me  a-top  for  Priam,  called  our  cat 

—  Helen,  enticed  away  from  home  (he  said) 

By  wicked  Paris,  who  couched  somewhere  close 

Under  the  footstool,  being  cowardly, 

But  whom — since  she   was  worth  the  pains,  poor   puss — 

Towzer  and  Tray, —  our  dogs,  the  Atreidai, —  sought 

By  taking  Troy  to  get  possession  of 

—  Always  when  great  Achilles  ceased  to  sulk, 
(My  pony  in  the  stable)  —  forth  would  prance 
And  put  to  flight  Hector  —  our  page-boy's  self. 
This  taught  me  who  was  who  and  what  was  what; 
So  far  I  rightly  understood  the  case 

At  five  years  old :  a  huge  delight  it  proved 
And  still  proves  —  thanks  to  that  instructor  sage 
My  Father,  who  knew  better  than  turn  straight 
Learning's  full  glare  on  weak-eyed  ignorance, 
Or,  worse  yet,  leave  weak  eyes  to  grow  sand-blind. 
Content  with  darkness  and  vacuity. 

Mr.  Frederick  Locker  in  a  letter  to  Browning  after 
his  father's  death,  begged  him  to  draw  up  a  slight 
sketch  that  should  introduce  to  the  world  that  inter- 
esting personality.  "  Perhaps  he  was  shy,"  Mr. 
Locker  wrote  :  "  at  any  rate  he  was  much  less  known 
than  he  ought  to  have  been  ;  and  now,  perhaps,  he 
only  remains  in  the  recollection  of  his  family  and  of 
one  or  two  superior  people  (like  myself!)  who  were 
capable  of  appreciating  him."  ^ 

All  this  makes  it  easy  to  trace  Browning's  in- 
heritance of  genial  temperament,  love  for  books,  keen 

'  See  Mrs.  Orr's  Life  and  Letters  of  Robert  Browning. 


6  Browning, 

intuitions,  imaginative  ardour,  and  so  on  ;  and  gives 
credibility  to  his  own  grateful  acknowledgment  of 
his  father's  influence  :  "He  secured  for  me  all  the 
ease  and  comfort  that  a  literary  man  needs  to  do 
good  work,"  he  said.  ''  It  would  have  been  shameful 
if  I  had  not  done  my  best  to  realise  his  expectations 
of  me."  It  is  also  true,  however,  that  Browning 
senior  possessed  some  traits  not  so  desirable  to  trans- 
mit. His  over-emotional  temperament,  that  made  it 
easy  for  him  to  throw  himself  into  the  play  of  a  child, 
made  it  equally  easy  for  him  to  forget  his  dignity  in 
more  important  situations.  There  is  evidence  enough 
in  Browning's  work,  without  the  aid  of  external  facts, 
that  his  own  temperament  was  not  less  ardent,  and 
it  is  the  more  to  his  credit  that  he  ruled  himself  with 
strenuous  regard  for  the  vital  and  permanent  interests 
of  character.  He  was  helped,  doubtless,  by  the  bal- 
ance struck  through  his  mother's  strong  ascetic 
instincts.  She  was  the  daughter  of  William  Wiede- 
mann, a  shipowner  and  a  Hamburg  German  settled 
in  Dundee.  The  theory  of  a  Jewish  strain  reaching 
the  poet  through  his  mother,  or  his  father  either,  is 
not  thought  tenable  by  Dr.  Furnivall,  although  the 
question  has  been  violently  debated  and  can  hardly 
be  considered  closed.  Certainly  no  clear  evidence  of 
such  a  strain  has  yet  been  produced,  and  the  infer- 
ences are  decidedly  against  its  existence.  With  the 
mixture  of  Creole,  Scotch,  German,  and  Anglo-Saxon, 
nothing  more  was  needed  to  provide  a  poetic  nature 
with  source  of  emotional  supplies.    Browning's  grand- 


mm.:-^ 


Robert  Browjimg. 


From  a  drawing  from  life  by  J.  W.  Alexander. 


ancestry  an^  IJoutb,  7 

father,  on  his  mother's  side,  strengthened  the  artistic 
element  in  his  ancestry  by  his  marked  talent  for  both 
drawing  and  music. 

Robert  Browning,  fifth  of  the  name,  was  born  on 
7th  May,  18 12,  in  the  parish  of  St.  Giles,  Camber- 
well,  a  suburb  of  London.  The  family  were  probably 
then  living  on  Southhampton  Street,  described  as 
"a  long  straggling  street,  starting  with  an  air  of  gen- 
tility from  the  Peckham  Road,  but  deteriorating  at 
the  other  end."  Although  Camberwell  has  made 
little  impression  upon  Browning's  poetry,  there  is  no 
doubt  he  found  it  a  good  place  to  grow  up  in.  When 
somebody  once  advanced  the  opinion  that  only  in 
Italy  could  one  look  for  romance,  he  replied,  "Ah, 
well !  1  should  like  to  include  poor  old  Camberwell  "  ^; 
and  in  Pauline,  he  writes  with  the  sentiment  of  ex- 
treme youth : 

As  life  wanes,  all  its  care  and  strife  and  toil 
Seem  strangely  valueless,  while  the  old  trees 
Which  grew  by  our  youth's  home,  the  waving  mass 
Of  climbing  plants  heavy  with  bloom  and  dew. 
The  morning  swallows  with  their  songs  like  words, 
All  these  seem  clear  and  only  worth  our  thoughts  : 

The  region  must  have  been  fairly  picturesque  in 
the  early  part  of  the  century  when  the  green  fields 
were  not  far  away.  Ruskin,  in  Prceterita,  gives  a 
charming  picture  of  the  view  from  Heme  Hill,  which 
was,  he  says,  "before  the  railroads  came,  entirely 
lovely."    One  of  its  attractions,  and  the  one  which 

'  See  Biographical  Introduction  to  the  Camberwell  Edition  of  Browning's  poems. 


8  :©rowmng. 

most  appealed  to  Browning,  was  the  woodland  near 
Dulwich,  where,  during  his  early  years,  he  often 
walked  at  night  and  sometimes  till  the  very  dawn. 

An  old  handbook'  records  the  healthfulness  of 
the  Peckham  district  in  which  his  boyhood  was 
spent,  the  winds  blowing  from  the  south  toward 
London  for  more  than  three-fourths  of  the  year, 
and  keeping  the  air  as  pure  as  if  the  situation  were 
far  removed  from  the  city.  To  substantiate  this  re- 
putation, a  remarkable  list  is  given  of  Camberwell 
people  who  lived  to  a  great  age,  about  a  dozen  pass- 
ing the  century  limit  by  several  years.  The  place 
also  adds  its  item  or  two  to  literary  history.  It  was  at 
Peckham  that  Goldsmith  lived,  a  "  heavy,  dull-look- 
ing, mild-mannered  usher  in  Dr.  Milner's  academy, 
and  at  Dulwich,  the  neighbouring  district,  Byron  was 
put  to  school.  Browning  himself  was  sent— when  he 
was  about  ten  years  old  and  already  engaged  in  a  mad 
affair  of  the  heart  —  to  Mr.  Ready's  school  opposite 
Rye  Lane,  where  he  stayed  until  he  was  fourteen. 
It  was,  no  doubt,  the  best  school  available,  but  the 
distinctive  part  of  his  education  took  place  at  home, 
where  he  found  fine  old  books,  many  of  them  in  their 
first  editions,  frequently  with  extra  pages  of  his  father's 
comments,  notes,  and  so  forth,  bound  in.  Mrs.  Orr 
speaks  of  Quarles's  Emblemes  as  his  earliest  favourite, 
and  of  Robinson  Crusoe  and  Milton's  works,  first 
editions  ;  of  Bernard  Mandew'iWe's  Bees ;  of  the  original 

'  Collections  Illustrative  of  the  Geology,  History,  /Antiquities,  and  ^Associations 
of  Camberwell  and  the  Neighbourhood,  by  Douglas  AUport,  1841. 


ancestry?  an^  l^outb.  9 

pamphlet,  Killing  No  Murder,  which  Carlyle  bor- 
rowed for  his  Life  of  Cromwell;  of  ancient  Bibles, 
and  so  on  ;  a  literary  grove  in  which  he  paced  with 
as  much  pleasure  as  through  the  lovely  woods  of 
Camberwell. 

When  he  was  eight  years  old  he  read  Pope's 
translation  of  Homer  and  liked  it,  and  about  the 
same  time  translated  the  simpler  odes  of  Horace. 
He  tried,  of  course,  verse-making  on  his  own  ac- 
count, but  Mr.  Sharp  declares  it  to  be  quite  certain 
that  none  of  these  early  essays,  which  have  been 
"preserved  without  the  poet's  knowledge,  and 
against  his  will,"  contains  anything  of  genuine 
promise.  A  little  volume  of  manuscript,  which  he 
called  'Mncondita,"  was  stitched  together  when  he 
was  twelve  years  old  and  shown  to  his  mother,  who 
handed  it  on  to  some  of  her  friends.  Miss  Flower 
(Sarah  Flower  Adams)  and  the  Rev.  William  John- 
son Fox  were  among  this  first  public,  and  found  the 
volume  interesting.  Through  this  dangerous  experi- 
ence the  child  passed  with  apparent  immunity.  No 
publisher  was  cajoled,  and  the  volume  was  presently 
destroyed.  At  this  time  Browning  was  probably 
under  the  influence  of  Byron,  but  he  had  his  Byronic 
attack  so  young  as  to  escape  any  unpleasant  sequelae, 
and  he  was  already  preparing  the  way  for  the  interest 
in  music  and  painting,  which  makes  his  poetry  on 
those  subjects  alive  with  technicalities  and  different 
from  any  that  has  been  written  by  any  other  English 
poet.     Mrs.  Orr  reports  that  he  studied  music  under 


lo  Browning. 

two  masters.  Mr.  John  Relfe,  "  author  of  a  valuable 
work  on  counterpoint,"  instructed  him  in  thorough 
bass,  and  Mr.  Abel,  a  pupil  of  Moscheles,  taught  him 
execution.  He  never  studied  painting  in  any  very 
serious  fashion  ;  but  while  he  lived  in  Peckham  he 
was  within  easy  reach  of  the  Dulwich  College  with 
its  permanent  exhibition  of  the  "Bourgeois  Gallery 
of  Paintings."  The  name  is  derived  from  the  founder 
and  does  not  indicate  mediocre  merit  on  the  part  of 
the  pictures,  which  include,  in  the  language  of  the 
Camberwell  chronicler:  "Several  pleasing  pictures 
by  Teniers  ;  some  good  portraits  and  idealities  by 
Vandyke ;  a  number  of  sweet  effects  by  Claude, 
Both,  and  Ruysdael  ;  a  variety  of  poetical  pieces  by 
N.  Poussin,  and  a  few  monstrosities  and  vulgarisms 
by  Rubens,  in  his  usual  ship-carver's  style." 

A  few  years  under  the  age  at  which  contact  with 
Spenser  struck  fire  from  Keats,  Browning  fell  under 
the  influence  of  Shelley  and  of  Keats  himself.  Both 
were  dead,  but  both  were  Browning's  contemporaries. 
Born,  one  in  1792,  and  the  other  in  1795,  they  had 
lived  in  the  same  period  and  had  written  the  mental 
experiences  of  natures  not  so  very  far  removed  from 
Browning's  own.  Zeal  and  ferment,  and  above  these 
the  clear  intellectual  vision,  were  common  to  all  three, 
and  it  is  no  marvel  at  all  that  when  Browning  picked 
up  at  a  bookstall  a  miserable  pirated  edition  of  Mr. 
Shelley's  Atheistical  Poem :  very  scarce,  he  should  at 
once  have  responded  to  the  new  note  of  youth  and 
artistic  supremacy.     Still  too  much  a  boy  to  hunt 


ancestri?  anb  l^outb.  n 

things  out  for  himself,  he  begged  his  mother  to  get 
him  Shelley's  works  ;  and,  after  a  considerable  search, 
Mrs.  Browning  procured  from  Ollier's  a  packet  of 
books  containing  most  of  Shelley's  writings,  "all  in 
their  first  edition,  with  the  exception  of  The  Cenci." 
Mr.  Oilier,  with  acute  judgment,  had  included  three 
volumes  of  Keats,  with  the  assurance  that  he  and 
Shelley  were  kindred  poets.  "If  that  packet  had 
been  lost,"  Mr.  Sharp  reflects,  "we  should  not  have 
had  Pauline;  we  might  have  had  a  different  Brown- 
ing." Mrs.  Orr  declines  to  accord  either  Shelley  or 
Keats  any  important  part  in  forming  Browning's 
genius  ;  but  there  is  little  doubt  that  the  first  writer 
who  has  power  to  bend  the  twig  of  the  young  im- 
pulse is  in  some  degree  responsible  for  the  inclination 
of  the  grown  tree. 

Certainly  Shelley's  ideas,  or,  to  put  it  more  pre- 
cisely, the  temper  of  the  mind  producing  those  ideas, 
called  forth  an  answer  from  the  immature  intellig- 
ence not  contradicted  in  later  years.  And,  with 
Browning,  to  comprehend  and  to  sympathise  was  to 
love  and  to  render  homage.  The  apostrophe  in 
Pauline,  beginning, 

Sun-treader,  life  and  light  be  thine  forever  ! 

has  an  ardour  far  surpassing  most  acknowledgments 
from  pupil  to  master.  The  familiar  Memorabilia 
("  Ah,  did  you  once  see  Shelley  plain  !  ")  vividly  com- 
municates the  magnetic  thrill  with  which  the  name  of 
Shelley  was  heard  on  the  lips  of  one  who  had  spoken 


12  Browning. 

with  him  and  cared  nothing  for  the  experience.  To 
Browning  the  bare  reminiscence  was  "the  moulted 
feather,  the  eagle  feather,"  infinitely  to  be  cherished. 
And  when  we  come  to  the  prose  essay  written  in 
1852,  to  accompany  a  series  of  unedited  letters,  sup- 
posed to  be  by  Shelley  (afterward  discovered  to  be 
spurious),  we  are  able  to  measure  more  accurately 
the  depth  of  Browning's  essential  sympathy  with  the 
young  rebellious  soul  of  the  earlier  poet.  This  par- 
agraph, the  concluding  one,  shows  how  enduring  the 
feeling  was,  and  how  fresh,  after  twenty  years  : 

*Mt  is  because  1  have  long  held  these  opinions  in 
assurance  and  gratitude,  that  I  catch  at  the  oppor- 
tunity offered  to  me  of  expressing  them  here  ;  know- 
ing that  the  alacrity  to  fulfil  an  humble  office  conveys 
more  love  than  the  acceptance  of  the  honour  of  a 
higher  one,  and  that  better,  therefore,  than  the  signal 
service  it  was  the  dream  of  my  boyhood  to  render  to 
his  fame  and  memory,  may  be  the  saying  of  a  few 
inadequate  words  upon  these  scarcely  more  import- 
ant supplementary  letters  of  Shelley.'" 

The  opinions  "long  held  in  assurance  and  grati- 
tude," and  expressed  at  the  age  of  forty  when 
Browning  was  in  his  full  maturity  of  power  and  ex- 
perience, are  worth  consideration  not  merely  for  their 
value  as  criticism  ;  but  because  they  offer  a  clue, 
more  or  less  unconsciously  given,  to  Browning's  own 
ideals,  and  to  the  deeper  springs  of  his  thought  and 

'  Quoted  from  the  Essay  on  Shelley  as  reproduced  in  the  Appendix  to  the  Cam- 
bridge Edition  of  Browning's  Complete  Poetic  and  Dramatic  IVritings. 


Hncesti*^  an^  l?outb,  13 

action.  In  admirable  and  lucid  prose  the  spirit  of  all 
his  poetry  speaks  when  he  calls  Shelley  "a  moral 
man,  because  he  was  true,  simple-hearted,  and  brave, 
and  because  what  he  acted  corresponded  to  what  he 
knew";  when  he  calls  him  "3.  man  of  religious 
mind,  because  every  audacious  negative  cast  up  by 
him  against  the  Divine  was  interpenetrated  with  a 
mood  of  reverence  and  adoration  "  ;  when  he  refuses 
to  confound  with  real  infidelity  and  atheism  of  the 
heart  the  "passionate,  impatient  struggles  of  a  boy 
towards  distant  truth  and  love,  made  in  the  dark,  and 
ended  by  one  sweep  of  the  natural  seas  before  the 
full  moral  sunrise  could  shine  out  on  him."  The 
wild  impulse  by  which  Shelley  plunged  from  mistake 
to  mistake,  apparently  at  the  mercy  of  caprice,  he  ex- 
plains with  the  curious  reasonableness  which  is  found 
to  balance  his  most  passionate  intuitions.  Shelley's 
"early  fervour  and  power  to  see/'  he  says,  "was 
accompanied  by  as  precocious  a  fertility  to  con- 
trive; he  endeavoured  to  realise  as  he  went  on  ideal- 
ising ;  every  wrong  had  simultaneously  its  remedy, 
and  out  of  the  strength  of  his  hatred  for  the  former, 
he  took  the  strength  of  his  confidence  in  the  latter— 
till  suddenly  he  stood  pledged  to  the  defence  of  a  set 
of  miserable  little  expedients,  just  as  if  they  repre- 
sented great  principles,  and  to  an  attack  upon  various 
great  principles,  really  so,  without  leaving  himself 
time  to  examine  whether  because  they  were  antag- 
onistical  to  the  remedy  he  had  suggested,  they  must, 
therefore,  be  identical  or  even  essentially  connected 


1 4  Br  owning* 

with  the  wrong  he  sought  to  cure,— playing  with 
blind  passion  into  the  hands  of  his  enemies,  and 
dashing  at  whatever  red  cloak  was  held  forth  to  him, 
as  the  cause  of  the  fireball  he  had  last  been  stung 
with,— mistaking  Churchdom  for  Christianity,  and 
for  marriage,  *  the  sale  of  love '  and  the  law  of  sexual 
oppression." 

This  is  Browning's  method  of  interpretation,  "to 
see  a  good  in  evil,  a  hope  in  ill-success,"  a  method 
somewhat  above  ordinary  human  standards.  He 
formulates  it  in  AM  Voglerixom  the  subjective  stand- 
point : 

Thoughts  hardly  to  be  packed 

Into  a  narrow  act, 
Fancies  that  broke  through  language  and  escaped  ; 

All  I  could  never  be, 

All,  men  ignored  in  me, 
This  I  was  worth  to  God  whose  wheel  the  pitcher  shaped. 

Applied  to  Shelley,  it  changes  the  conception  of 
him  as  a  weak  revolutionist,  to  a  conception  of  him 
as  a  strong  nature  broken  in  the  making,  an  uncom- 
pleted whole,  the  fragments  of  which  had  had  no 
chance  for  co-ordination.  Right  or  wrong,  it  is  an 
interpretation  that  leans  to  the  nobler  side  of  judg- 
ment, and  expresses  the  extraordinary  generosity  of 
Browning's  attitude  toward  apparent  failure. 

And  now,  before  passing  to  a  consideration  of 
Browning's  own  creative  work,  it  will  be  interesting 
to  observe  one  more  passage  from  his  essay  on 
Shelley,  a  passage  that  perfectly  applies  to  himself, 


Hnccetr^  anb  IPoutb^  15 

and  that  seems  to  justify  any  sincere  attempt  to  con- 
nect his  life  with  his  work.  After  defining  the  in- 
terest to  be  found  in  the  biography  of  "an  objective 
poet,  as  the  phrase  now  goes,"  he  continues  : 

"  We  turn  with  stronger  needs  to  the  genius  of  an 
opposite  tendency  —  the  subjective  poet  of  modern 
classification.  He,  gifted  like  the  objective  poet  with 
the  fuller  perception  of  nature  and  man,  is  impelled 
to  embody  the  thing  he  perceives,  not  so  much  with 
reference  to  the  many  below  as  to  the  one  above 
him,  the  Supreme  Intelligence  which  apprehends  all 
things  in  their  absolute  truth — an  ultimate  view  ever 
aspired  to,  if  but  partially  attained,  by  the  poet's 
own  soul.  Not  what  man  sees,  but  what  God  sees 
—  the  Ideas  of  Plato,  seeds  of  creation  lying  burn- 
ingly  on  the  Divine  Hand —  it  is  toward  these  that  he 
struggles.  Not  with  the  combination  of  humanity  in 
action,  but  with  the  primal  elements  of  humanity  he 
has  to  do  ;  and  he  digs  where  he  stands  —  preferring 
to  seek  them  in  his  own  soul  as  the  nearest  reflex  of 
that  absolute  Mind,  according  to  the  intuitions  of 
which  he  desires  to  perceive  and  speak.  Such  a 
poet  does  not  deal  habitually  with  the  picturesque 
groupings  and  tempestuous  tossings  of  the  forest 
trees,  but  with  their  roots  and  fibres  naked  to  the 
chalk  and  stone.  He  does  not  paint  pictures  and 
hang  them  on  the  walls,  but  rather  carries  them  on 
the  retina  of  his  own  eyes  ;  we  must  look  deep  into 
his  human  eyes  to  see  those  pictures  on  them.  He 
is  rather  a  seer,  accordingly,  than  a  fashioner,  and 


1 6  Browning. 

what  he  produces  will  be  less  a  work  than  an  efflu- 
ence. That  effluence  cannot  be  easily  considered  in 
abstraction  from  his  personality — being  indeed  the 
very  radiance  and  aroma  of  his  personality,  projected 
from  it  but  not  separated.  Therefore,  in  our  ap- 
proach to  the  poetry,  we  necessarily  approach  the 
personality  of  the  poet ;  in  apprehending  it  we  appre- 
hend him,  and  certainly  we  cannot  love  it  without 
loving  him.  Both  for  love's  and  for  understanding's 
sake  we  desire  to  know  him,  and,  as  readers  of  his 
poetry,  must  be  readers  of  his  biography  also." 

Perhaps  this,  after  all,  is  the  most  permanent  debt 
that  Browning  owes  to  Shelley ;  the  first  realisation 
that  poetry  may  be  the  expression  of  the  human  soul 
at  its  most  characteristic  moments,  that  drama  need 
not  be  an  affair  of  scenes  and  puppets,  but  may  be 
the  struggle  and  progression  of  emotions  and  convic- 
tions in  that  inner  theatre  of  the  mind,  which  is  for 
one  observer  only. 


CHAPTER  II. 
PAULINE,  PARACELSUS,  AND  SORDELLO. 

THE  immediate  influence  of  Shelley  on  Browning 
was  stimulating  but  somewhat  confusing.  He 
seems  for  a  time  to  have  professed  atheism 
and  practised  vegetarianism  (the  ''couple  of  years  or 
more  on  bread  and  potatoes,"  to  which  he  alludes  in 
a  letter  to  Miss  Barrett) ;  but  he  soon  gave  up  the 
latter  on  account  of  its  effect  upon  his  eyes,  and  the 
former  certainly  did  not  last  long.  If  his  strong  self- 
consciousness  found  expression  in  manifestations  that 
were  doubtless  absurd  enough,  his  rapid  development 
soon  gave  him  dignity. 

In  1845  he  wrote  to  Miss  Barrett  that  it  was  "  not 
since  yesterday  nor  ten  nor  twenty  years  before  " 
that  he  had  begun  to  look  into  his  life  and  ''study  its 
end  and  requirements,  what  would  turn  to  its  good 
or  its  loss." 

This  looking  into  his  life  resulted  in  1833  in  a  poem 
called  Pauline,  published  anonymously  by  Saunders 
&  Otley,  his  aunt  bearing  the  expense.  He  had  by 
this  time  definitely  decided,  with  his  father's  approval, 
to  become  a  poet  by  profession. 


1 8  ISrowning. 

After  leaving  Mr.  Ready's  he  had  been  no  more  to 
schools,  pursuing  his  education  at  home ;  but  in 
1829-30  he  had  attended  Professor  Long's  Greek 
class,  at  the  University  of  London,  w^here  a  fellow- 
student  remembers  him  as  held  in  esteem  and  regard. 
He  was  then  "a  bright,  handsome  youth  with  long 
black  hair  falling  over  his  shoulders."  There  was  at 
the  moment  some  thought  of  his  studying  for  the 
Bar,  and  even  fifteen  years  later  we  read  of  ''dear 
foolish  old  Basil  Montagu,"  now  and  then  "bother- 
ing" him  to  read  law  with  him  gratis,  but  the  im- 
pulse toward  poetry  was  much  too  strong  to  be  put 
down.  He  began,  not  precisely  in  the  orthodox 
poetic  fashion,  by  reading  and  inwardly  digesting 
Johnson's  dictionary. 

Pauline's  first  appearance  was  made  as  "a  large 
old-fashioned  duodecimo  volume  of  three  sheets,  its 
pages  measuring,  when  uncut,  7|  x  4I  inches."  In 
this  poem  of  ten  hundred  and  thirty  lines  Browning 
plunges  boldly  into  his  element.  Apple  blossoms 
are  not  more  unlike  the  fruit  than  the  early  poems  of 
most  poets  are  unlike  the  late,  but  with  Browning 
the  tendencies  were  visibly  shaped  in  the  germ,  and 
for  this  reason,  if  for  no  other,  Pauline  is  interesting 
to  those  who  read  his  poetry. 

The  preface  is,  characteristically,  a  Latin  quotation 
from  a  treatise  on  occult  philosophy  by  Henry  Cor- 
nelius Agrippa,  the  French  physician  and  astrologer, 
headed  by  a  couple  of  lines  from  the  Norman-French 
poet  Marot : 


Pauline,  paraceleu^,  anb  SorbcHo.        19 

I  am  no  longer  what  I  was, 
Nor  may  I  be  the  same  again.' 

The  poem  itself  is  a  drama  of  the  inner  life  with 
no  events  save  those  that  take  place  in  the  mind. 
From  the  start  the  average  reader  will  strike  on  most 
of  the  rocks  of  the  so-called  "Browning  obscurity," 
one  of  the  most  obstructive  being  his  habit  of  taking 
for  granted  a  good  deal  of  somewhat  out-of-the-way 
knowledge  on  the  part  of  the  public. 

We  are  no  sooner  well  launched  than  we  need  our 
notes  to  remind  us,  if  not  to  inform  us,  that  "  a  giant 
standing  vast  in  the  sunset,"  is  Atlas  ;  that  Nestor  was 
the  "high-crested  chief,"  who  sailed  "  with  troops  of 
friends  to  Tenedos  ; "  that  Agamemnon  was  he  who 
"trod  the  purple  calmly  to  his  death,"  and  so  forth. 
Doubtless  classical  allusions  are  more  familiar  to  Eng- 
lish readers  of  poetry  than  to  American.  They  strew 
the  debates  of  the  House  of  Commons  while  they 
smack  of  pedantry  in  those  of  Congress,  and  if  Brown- 
ing won  his  way  sooner  on  this  side  of  the  water  it 
was  despite  his  learned  allusions,  classical  and  other, 
not  because  of  them.  They  remain,  as  he  employs 
them,  an  appreciable  obstacle  to  the  ready  enjoyment 
of  him  by  the  general  reader,  increasing  from  the 
comparatively  slight  difficulties  of  Pauline  to  those  of 
Ferishtah's  Fancies  and  the  Parleyings. 

Certainly  none  of  the  spirit  of  classic  poetry  dwelt 
in  this  first  poem,  or  in  any  poem  that  he  ever  wrote. 

'  Plus  tie  suis  ce  que  j'ai  He, 
Etne  le  s^aurois  jamais  etre. 


20  Brownlno. 

He  did  not  look  as  the  Greeks  looked  upon  the  visible 
world,  to  depict  with  static  serenity  the  external  feat- 
ures of  nature.  He  plunged  with  an  impulse  more 
like  that  of  the  Hebraic  writers  into  the  depths  of  the 
concealed  life,  the  life  of  the  human  soul  which  we 
most  of  us  do  all  we  can  to  keep  out  of  sight,  so  it  is 
not  surprising  that  Pauline  failed  to  attract  popular 
attention.  Had  it  been  much  more  perfectly  wrought 
it  would  still  have  had  to  reckon  with  the  instinct- 
ive opinion  of  the  Anglo-Saxon  people  that  it  is  not 
"  good  form  "  to  talk  so  much  about  one's  feelings. 

It  was  not,  however,  entirely  neglected.  It  was 
reviewed  in  The  Monthly  Repository  by  Mr.  Fox, 
who  praised  it  with  the  full  courage  of  his  convic- 
tions and  found  in  it  the  promise  of  genius.  A  re- 
view in  The  Athenoeum,  characterised  by  Mrs.  Orr  as 
''bald  though  well-meant,"  certainly  contradicts 
her  statement  that  "  one  only  "  (Mr.  Fox)  discovered 
Browning  in  his  obscurity  ;  the  reviewer  declaring 
the  faults  of  the  poem — "  a  touch  of  the  mysterious," 
now  and  then  "a  want  of  true  melody,"  a  certain 
abruptness — to  be  no  more  than  "a  grain  of  sand  in  a 
cup  of  pure  water,  compared  to  the  nature  and  pas- 
sion and  fancy  "  displayed. 

On  the  adverse  side  may  be  noted  a  review  in 
Fraser's  Magazine,  interesting  only  as  an  example  of 
a  style  of  criticism  much  in  vogue  at  the  time. 

It  begins  :  "  '  Non  dubito  quin  titulus,'  etc.,  quotes 
the  author  oi Pauline,  from  Cornelius  Agrippa  ;  which 
we,  shearing  the  sentence  of  its  lengthy  continuation, 


Pauline,  paraceleue,  anb  Sorbello.        21 

translate  thus  :  '  We  are  under  no  kind  of  doubt  about 
the  title  to  be  given  to  you,  my  poet,  you  being  be- 
yond all  question  as  mad  as  Cassandra,  without  any 
of  the  power  to  prophesy  like  her,  or  to  construct  a 
connected  sentence  like  anybody  else.'"  The  re- 
viewer continues  by  expressing  his  opinion  that 
Pauline  is  '*the  production  of  one  or  all  of  the  Whig 
ministers,"  since  the  "same  folly,  incoherence,  and 
reckless  assertion  "  distinguished  their  pamphlet  on 
the  Reform  Ministry  and  the  unfortunate  poem  under 
consideration.  A  frivolous,  but  rather  clever  adapta- 
tion is  made  of  certain  lines  to  the  political  history  of 
the  Cabinet,  and  the  notice  closes  with  a  quotation 
which,  torn  from  its  context,  fairly  justifies  its  con- 
demnation as  a  "  raving  "  apostrophe  to  place. 

The  best  proof  that  Pauline,  seen  whole,  is  thor- 
oughly Browningesque  in  its  virtues  and  vices,  is 
furnished  by  Rossetti's  recognition  of  its  authorship 
after  it  had  lain  twenty  years  in  anonymous  obscurity. 
Browning  himself  was  not  proud  of  it,  calling  it  "fool- 
ish and  not  boylike."  With  the  latter  accusation  it 
is  impossible  to  disagree.  The  poem  was  not  boy- 
like nor  was  it  manlike.  Its  morbid  immaturity  must 
be  recognised  fairly  to  estimate  the  great,  the  almost 
marvellous  advance  from  Pauline  to  Paracelsus. 

Paracelsus  was  written  in  1835,  when  Browning 
was  only  twenty-three,  and  Dr.  Berdoe  thinks  it  the 
work  that  posterity  will  probably  estimate  as  Brown- 
ing's greatest.  This  opinion  will  find  few  supporters. 
What  Mr.  Stedman  calls  the  "tedious  garrulity  "  of 


22  Browning* 

the  poem  is  a  defect  that  will  not  be  less  obvious 
with  the  passage  of  time.  The  subject  will  demand 
to  the  end  innumerable  notes  and  explanations  ;  and 
the  great  majority  of  readers  will  be  repelled  by  the 
"  problems  "  unrelieved  by  the  "  picture."  In  Pippa 
Passes  we  see  the  gay  child  on  her  holiday,  up  at 
dawn,  looking  out  of  her  window  at  the  sunrise, 
wandering  in  sheer  joy  of  indolence  through  the 
streets,  stooping  to  pick  heart's-ease  in  the  intervals 
of  her  singing.  In  Pompilia's  monologue  {The  Ring 
and  the  Book)  we  see  the  girl  of  seventeen,  two 
weeks  a  mother,  and  as  white  as  the  poor  clay  Vir- 
gin to  whom  she  had  given  her  roses ;  even  in  Fifine 
at  the  Fair,  most  metaphysical  of  riddles,  we  have 
no  difficulty  in  forming  a  mental  picture  of  Elvire 
with  her  grave  eyes  and  web  of  brown  hair  as  op- 
posed to  "pert  Fifme."  But  in  Paracelsus,  in  spite 
of  the  fact  that  we  know  and  understand  the  char- 
acters through  their  thoughts,  we  see  nothing  at  all. 
Neither  Paracelsus  himself,  nor  Festus,  nor  Michal, 
nor  Aprile,  is  a  creature  of  body  and  blood.  This 
shuts  Paracelsus  out  from  among  the  great  poems 
of  the  world,  and  forbids  us  to  call  it  the  "greatest " 
even  of  Browning's  own. 

Professor  Royce  has  compared  it  to  the  poems  of 
the  Faust  cycle  and  has  included  it  among  them.^ 
The  resemblances  are  many  and  obvious.  Paracel- 
sus was  a  contemporary  of  Faustus  the  Younger, 
the  prototype  of  Goethe's  hero,  and  like  him  in- 

'  See  article  on  "  The  Problems  of  Paracelsus,"  in  The  New  IVorld,  March,  1894. 


Pauline,  paraceleus,  an^  Sorbello.        23 

quisitive  of  knowledge  in  every  form  conceivable. 
"The  absence  of  an  external  tempter,"  says  Professor 
Royce,  "m  no  wise  excludes  the  poem  from  the 
Faust  cycle  ;  for  the  tempter  in  most  such  creations 
is  but  the  hero's  other  self,  given  a  magical  and 
plastic  outer  reality,  as  with  Manfred. 

''  As  regards  the  positive  aspects  of  the  analogy, 
the  typical  hero  of  a  poem  of  the  Faust  cycle  is  a 
man  of  the  Renaissance,  to  whom  the  Church  is  no 
authority,  and  to  whom  the  world  is  magically  full 
either  of  God's  or  of  Satan's  presence,  or  of  both. 

"This  hero  risks  his  soul  in  a  quest  for  some 
absolute  fulfilment  of  pleasure,  power,  wisdom,  or 
peace.  Thus  staking  everything,  he  gets,  like  an 
early  voyager  to  the  New  World,  either  the  doom 
of  the  outlaw  or  the  glories  of  the  conquistador ;  but 
meanwhile  he  comes  near,  if  he  does  not  meet,  an 
evil  end  in  the  abyss." 

If  we  examine,  however  briefly,  the  life  of  the 
real  Paracelsus,  we  see  how  he  touches  on  these 
various  sides  the  "typical  hero."  He  was  born  at 
Einsiedeln,  near  Zurich,  in  1493,  twenty  years  later 
than  Copernicus,  ten  years  later  than  Luther,  one 
year  after  the  discovery  of  America,  at  a  time  when 
curiosity  was  invading  the  thoughtful  minds  of 
Europe  and  stimulating  them  to  investigation  and 
invention.  His  name  was  Philippus  Aureolus  Theo- 
phrastus  Bombastus  von  Hohenheim. 

His  father,  William  Bombast  von  Hohenheim, 
was  a  physician,   and   instructed  him  in  surgery, 


24  Brownlna. 

medicine,  and  alchemy.  He  studied  philosophy  un- 
der several  masters,  and  chiefly  under  Trithemius  of 
Spanheim,  Abbot  of  Wurzburg,  and  an  adept  in  the 
occult  studies. 

The  influence  of  Trithemius  turned  his  mind  to- 
ward magic  and  astrology  ;  but  he  differed  from  most 
of  the  mystics  of  his  time  in  that  mysticism  did  not 
occupy  his  thoughts  to  the  exclusion  of  practical 
ideas.  ''True  alchemy,"  he  said,  *'has  but  one  aim 
and  object,  to  extract  the  quintessence  of  things  and 
to  prepare  arcana,  tinctures,  and  elixirs  which  may 
restore  to  man  the  health  and  soundness  he  has 
lost." 

Even  his  bitterest  opponents  have  granted  the 
value  of  his  works  on  surgery.  He  "discovered  the 
metals  zinc  and  bismuth  and  hydrogen  gas,  and 
the  medical  uses  of  many  minerals,  the  most  import- 
ant of  which  were  mercury  and  antimony.  He  gave 
to  medicine  the  greatest  weapon  in  her  armoury — 
opium." 

He  worked  among  peasants  and  miners,  soldiers 
and  prisoners,  travelling  far  and  labouring  with  his 
hands  in  order  to  establish  the  principles  by  which 
he  held.  When  he  was  given  the  chair  of  physical 
science  at  Basle  (the  first  incumbent  of  such  a  chair), 
he  began  by  casting  aside  in  magnificent  arrogance  of 
conviction  the  old  sacred  books  of  medicine,  denoun- 
cing the  doctrines  of  his  predecessors  with  no  concern 
for  modesty  or  moderation. 

As  he  says  in  the  poem  : 


Pauline,  paraceleue,  anb  Sor&eno.        25 

I  think  my  class  will  not  forget  the  day 
I  let  them  know  the  gods  of  Israel, 
Aetius,  Oribasius,  Galen,  Rhasis, 
Serapion,  Avicenna,  Averroes, 
Were  blocks  ! 

Compromise  was  absolutely  foreign  to  his  spirit.  He 
was  reckless  in  condemning  the  methods  of  contem- 
porary physicians  and  the  self-seeking  practices  of 
apothecaries.  Moreover,  he  cured  the  sick  poor  with- 
out taking  a  fee,  a  crime  against  professional  etiquette 
of  that  age,  and  as  Luther  preached  spiritual  truths  in 
the  vulgar  tongue,  so  did  he  lecture  in  language  to 
be  understanded  of  the  people.  He  has  been  called  a 
drunkard,  and  Browning  admits — too  freely  accord- 
ing to  Dr.  Berdoe's  arguments — the  charge  of  drunk- 
enness. He  was  proud,  violent,  foolish  with  many  of 
the  follies  of  his  time,  rough  in  speech,  extravagant  in 
theory,  possibly  given  to  license,  and  possibly,  too,  a 
little  mad ;  but  he  saw  the  gleam  of  the  scientific 
method  through  the  close-shut  bars  of  traditional 
superstition  and  ignorance. 

His  doctrine  of  "signatures"  was  one  of  his  ab- 
surdities, leading  him  to  prescribe  euphrasy  for  troubles 
of  the  eye  because  the  flower  of  the  euphrasy  plant 
resembles  an  eye,  and  mulberries  for  blood  diseases 
because  of  their  colour.  This  was  a  side  on  which 
he  touched  the  misguided  past ;  on  the  other  hand, 
he  reached  out  to  the  future  in  his  Primum  Ens 
Sanguinis,  an  anticipation  of  the  operation  called 
"fusion,"  the  "venous  injection  of  blood  from  the 
arm  of  a  '  healthy  young  person.'  " 


26  ISrowning. 

His  cosmology  and  theosophical  beliefs  are  too 
complicated  to  be  sketched  in  a  paragraph,  but  one 
clause  of  his  creed— his  conviction  that  the  external 
man  is  "  not  the  real  man,  but  the  real  man  is  the 
soul  in  connection  with  the  Divine  Spirit"— is  no 
more  nor  less  than  the  essence  of  Buddhism,  of  Christ- 
ianity, of  modern  Theosophy,  and  even  of  such  faith 
as  the  agnostic  mind  permits  itself 

Brow^ning's  commentators  have  some  of  them  in- 
sisted upon  the  remarkable  prevision  shov/n  in  Para- 
celsus of  scientific  truths  since  proclaimed  to  the 
world  by  Darwin  and  Spencer.  Such  passages  as 
that  in  which  Paracelsus  describes  the  ascent  of  man 
toward  the  moment 

When  all  mankind  alike  is  perfected 
Equal  in  full-blown  powers, 

seem  to  them  practically  an  account  of  the  evolution- 
ary principle  of  development  from  the  simple  to  the 
complex,  from  the  homogeneous  to  the  hetero- 
geneous. 

Much  of  this  philosophy  is  found,  as  Dr.  Berdoe 
has  shown,  in  the  actual  teachings  of  the  Kabala,  in 
which  Paracelsus  was  learned,  and  may  be  consid- 
ered as  reflecting  thoughts  expressed  by  the  real 
Paracelsus  in  his  writings  ;  and  some  of  it  is  due  to 
the  poetic  imagination,  which  reveals  to  poets  and  to 
scientists  as  well,  vast  possibilities  eagerly  to  be  sung 
by  the  former,  and  patiently  investigated  and  sub- 
stantiated by  the  latter.  As  Mr.  J.  L.  Jones  says  in 
his  remarkable  paper  on  The  Uncalculating  Soul : 


Pauline,  paracelsue,  anb  Sorbello.        27 

**  The  poet,  by  the  *  tougher  sinew  '  of  his  brain, 
the  more  penetrating  grasp  of  his  mind,  reaches  the 
synthesis  which  his  sure  ally  and  best  friend,  the  man 
of  science,  will,  give  him  time  enough,  justify  by 
analysis." 

Not  the  remnants  of  superstition  that  he  retained, 
but  the  reforms  he  initiated  prevented  Paracelsus  from 
gaining  the  honour  of  his  contemporaries.  He  was 
bold  enough  to  heal  without  the  aid  of  the  Church, 
he  saved  the  life  of  a  prince,  incidentally  throwing 
some  discredit  on  the  efficacy  of  a  relic  of  the  Blessed 
Virgin  ;  he  cured  a  wealthy  priest  so  speedily  that  his 
demand  for  his  fee  was  judged  impertinence,  and  so 
he  was  chased  out  of  Basle,  and  servants  of  his 
enemies  attacked  him,  causing  him  a  fall,  from  the 
effects  of  which  he  died  in  the  Salzburg  Hospital,  at 
the  age  of  forty-eight. 

The  type  is  one  that  has  a  dignity  of  heroism  not 
to  be  won  by  victims  of  glorious  accident.  Like 
Columbus,  like  Luther,  like  Galileo,  Paracelsus  fol- 
lowed the  truth  under  the  weight  of  all  the  world's 
contempt.  There  was  no  showy  martyrdom,  no 
thrilling  incident  to  ring  like  a  reveille  in  the  history 
of  fine  deeds  ;  nothing  but  misunderstanding,  disap- 
pointment, ingratitude,  and  the  strength  to  bear  them 
given  by  the  consciousness  that  an  idea,  a  conviction, 
was  not  under  any  conceivable  circumstances  to  be 
sacrificed  to  popularity.  To  belong  to  this  class  of 
leaders — for  it  is  one  of  the  tardy  compensations 
of  life  that  at  some  time,  by  someone,  they  are  almost 


28  Browning. 

certain  to  be  recognised  as  leaders — is  to  belong  to 
the  men  of  sorrows  whose  crucifixion  comes  long 
before  their  recognition  as  the  saviours  of  the  world. 

According  to  Dr.  Berdoe,  Browning  did  more  than 
anyone  else,  more  than  physicians  or  chemists  or 
historians,  to  establish  a  just  idea  of  the  service  ren- 
dered by  Paracelsus  to  humanity.  '*  Up  to  the  time 
when,  in  183^,  Mr.  Browning  v/rote  his  poem,  Para- 
celsus," Dr.  Berdoe  says,  ''the  world  had  nothing 
but  a  distorted  image  of  the  hero,  which  was  in  fact 
little  better  than  a  caricature  drawn  by  his  bitter  ene- 
mies. Mr.  Browning's  vast  research  amongst  con- 
temporary records  has  enabled  him  to  put  together — 
like  Professor  Owen  with  his  prehistoric  bones— a 
consistent  and  faithful  figure  of  the  real  man.  When 
Mr.  Browning  says,  in  the  notes  appended  to  the 
poem,  that  the  liberties  he  has  taken  with  his  subject 
are  very  trifling,  we  now  know  this  to  be  the  fact 
because  we  have  access  to  the  documents  which  con- 
firm his  estimate  of  the  hero's  life.  In  all  history  it 
would  be  difficult  to  find  another  character  which 
has  been  so  slandered  and  misrepresented  as  that  of 
Paracelsus." 

The  difference  between  Browning's  reconstructed 
figure  of  the  sixteenth-century  physician  and  Pro- 
fessor Owen's  prehistoric  man  lies  in  the  fact  that 
Browning  not  only  put  his  anatomical  parts  together 
with  scientific  accuracy,  but  also  informed  them  with 
the  spirit  of  life,  so  that  the  hero  of  his  poem  be- 
comes as  much  a  subject  for  our  vital  sympathies  as 


Pauline,  Paracelsus,  anb  Sor^ello.        29 

the  man  who  lives  and  suffers  within  the  range  of  our 
actual  experience. 

What  was  the  drama  enacted  in  the  mind  of  this 
complex  Paracelsus,  and  how  did  the  tragedy  de- 
velop ?  The  struggle  goes  on  between  Knowledge 
and  Love  ;  but  Professor  Royce  pertinently  reminds 
us  that  "nobody  who  has  a  nature  on  the  human 
level  ever  lives  by  either  the  intellect  alone  or  the 
affections  alone.  Every  rational  being  both  '  knows  ' 
and  Moves,'  if  by  these  words  be  meant  only  the 
bare  abstractions  called  the  '  pure  intellect '  and  the 
'  affections.'  "  The  question  is,  What  does  he  know 
and  what  does  he  love  ?  Paracelsus  is  shown  to  be 
not  a  strenuous  devotee  of  one  branch  of  knowledge, 
but  a  man  of  intuitions,  "  no  admirer  of  the  so-called 
'  cold  intellect,'  but  a  passionate  mystic  ;  no  steadily 
progressive  student  busied  with  continuous  system- 
atic researches,  but  a  restless  wanderer ;  no  being  of 
clear-cut  ideas,  but  a  dreamer."  He  is  an  ''occult 
Idealist,"  and  looks  for  the  revelation  of  the  divine 
in  strange  places  and  in  physical  signs  and  wonders. 
When  Aprile  counsels  him  to  use  his  knowledge  for 
the  sake  of  mankind  he  tries  to  do  so  without  coming 
in  the  slightest  degree  nearer  to  the  heart  of  man. 
He  is  a  failure  because  he  is  not  in  sympathy  with 
human  kind,  because  he  has  not  suffered  with  their 
sufferings  or  shared  their  ideals,  his  own  life  has  been 
shut  off  from  theirs  by  his  imperious  sense  of  superi- 
ority and  remoteness.  When  he  finally  ''attains" 
it  is  because  he  sees  God  revealed  in  the  human  soul 


30  Browning. 

and  not  in  the  physical  world ;  because  he  interro- 
gates the  moral  world  for  such  truth  as  he  had  formerly 
expected  to  find  miraculously  revealed  in  the  stars 
and  the  plants.  He  has  followed  the  line  of  evolution 
at  last  to  what  seems  its  termination  in  the  moral 
nature  of  the  human  creature.^ 

The  poem  has  been  called  the  problem  of  the  Mind 
and  Heart,  and  Paracelsus  himself  recognises  some 
such  analogy  in  his  words  to  Aprile  : 

— ^We  must  never  part. 
Are  we  not  halves  of  one  dissevered  world, 
Whom  this  strange  chance  unites  once  more  ?    Part  ?  never  ! 
Till  thou,  the  lover,  know,  and  1,  the  knower, 
Love — until  both  are  saved. 

And  again,  in  his  dying  rhapsody  : 

— Let  men 
Regard  me,  and  the  poet  dead  long  ago 
Who  loved  too  rashly  ;  and  shape  forth  a  third 
And  better-tempered  spirit,  warned  by  both. 

For  this  particular  interpretation  of  the  tempera- 
ment of  Paracelsus  there  is  no  very  clear  justification 
in  his  actual  history.  With  all  his  obvious  faults 
he  seems  to  have  been  unusually  warm-hearted  and 
sympathetic.  The  assumption,  however,  enabled 
Browning  to  embody  in  his  first  important  poem  the 
chief  article  of  his  creed  which  he  was  never  in  any 
instance  to  deny;  the  revelation,  that  is,  of  the  divine 
through  the  human. 

It  was  natural  that  at  twenty-three  he  should 

'  See  article  on  "  The  Problems  of  Paracelsus  "  ;  The  New  IVorld,  March,  1894. 


Robert  Browtmig  as  a  Yoimg  Man. 

From  an  engraving  by  J.  C.  Armytage. 


pauUnc,  paracclsue,  anb  Sorbello.        31 

contrast  in  his  own  mind  his  ideal,  then  recently 
formed,  of  Shelley,  ardent  for  the  redemption  of 
suffering  humanity,  with  his  ideal  of  Paracelsus,  for 
whose  wisdom  he  had  conceived  so  profound  a  re- 
spect, for  the  satisfaction  of  working  out  a  dramatic 
theory.  His  next  long  poem,  Sordello,  shows  him 
preoccupied  with  a  somewhat  systematic  attempt  at 
constructing  a  picture  of  man's  mental  life  by  com- 
bining and  contrasting  the  forces  which  we  call  in- 
tellect and  will  and  passion.  As  these  forces  are 
more  clearly  perceived  when  each  is  personified  by 
an  individual  temperament,  the  obvious  resort  was 
to  seek  models  in  history  and  make  them  typical. 

Paracelsus  was  treated  not  much  better  than 
Pauline  by  the  reviews.  Ten  years  after  its  first 
appearance,  Browning  wrote  to  Miss  Barrett  that,  un- 
til Forster's  notice  of  it  appeared  in  The  Examiner, 
every  journal  that  thought  it  worth  alluding  to  at 
all  treated  it  with  entire  contempt.  The  Athenceum 
hastening  to  say  that  it  was  ''not  without  talent, 
but  spoiled  by  obscurity  and  only  an  imitation  of 
Shelley!" 

A  public  arose,  however,  made  up  not  of  "im- 
pudent reviewers,"  but  of  literary  men  of  such 
standing  as  Wordsworth,  Landor,  Dickens,  etc. 
Among  the  friends  of  the  poem  was  William 
Macready  the  actor,  who  was  strongly  attracted  by 
Browning,  and  soon  after  making  his  acquaintance 
said  to  him:  "Write  a  play.  Browning,  and  keep 
me  from  going  to  America."    Browning  quickly  re- 


32  Browning. 

sponded  : ''  Shall  it  be  historical  and  English  ?  What 
do  you  say  to  a  drama  on  Strafford  ?  "  This  conver- 
sation took  place  at  a  dinner  given  at  Serjeant  Tal- 
fourd's  after  the  performance  of  Ion.  The  honour  that 
fell  to  Browning  was  Talfourd's  request  that,  as 
**the  youngest  of  the  poets  of  England,"  he  should 
respond  to  the  toast,  *'The  Poets  of  England."  As 
Wordsworth  and  Landor  were  present  it  was  no 
slight  tribute,  and  must  have  compensated  for  a 
good  deal  of  neglect  in  other  quarters. 

The  notion  of  a  Strafford  play  was  presently  car- 
ried out ;  but  Sordello  had  already  been  begun, 
although  it  was  not  finished  until  after  Strafford  had 
been  written  and  put  upon  the  stage.  In  spite  of 
this  interruption  it  properly  belongs  to  the  Paracelsus 
period. 

'*  Readers  and  even  students  shy  at  Sordello," 
says  the  Dean  of  St.  Paul's.  Let  us  examine  the 
reason.  In  the  first  place,  the  poet  darts  back  three 
centuries  earlier  than  Paracelsus,  and  introduces  the 
reader  to  ancient  Mantua  at  a  time  when  suffering 
and  crime  stalked  through  Northern  Italy  making  it 
truly  an  "  inn  of  grief" 

This  period  of  strife  between  Guelph  and  Ghibel- 
line,  of  Courts  of  Love  and  troubadours,  of  license  and 
vice  and  petty  ambitions  under  a  cloak  of  curiously 
seductive  romance,  is  well  enough  known  in  its  gen- 
eral outlines,  but  by  no  means  well  enough  known 
by  any  but  the  special  student  to  make  a  poem,  filled 
as  Sordello  is  filled  with  historical  hints  and  implica- 


Pauline,  iparacelsus,  an^  Sorbello.        33 

tions,  anything  but  a  despair,  unless  the  thread  of 
connection  is  plainly  visible  and  the  background  of 
events  broadly  and  clearly  painted. 

That  Browning  provided  this  thread  and  this  back- 
ground for  the  benefit  of  his  reader  (and  especially,  it 
would  seem,  for  his  own  benefit),  even  his  closest 
sympathiser  and  most  ardent  admirer  declines  to 
admit.  In  one  of  Miss  Barrett's  letters  to  him  she 
complains  that  its  connections  and  associations  hang 
as  loosely  as  those  in  a  dream,  to  the  confusion  of  the 
reader  "who  persists  in  thinking  himself  awake." 
Browning  at  one  time  considered  rewriting  it,  but 
the  most  he  ever  did  was  to  supply  descriptive  head- 
ings in  the  edition  of  1863,  by  which  material  aid  is 
certainly  given  to  a  consecutive  idea  of  the  plot. 

After  this  difficulty  of  keeping  in  mind  the  relation 
of  the  events  described  to  each  other,  and  to  other 
events  not  mentioned,  comes  the  problem  of  discov- 
ering Sordello's  personality  through  the  extraordi- 
narily complicated  key  furnished  by  his  excursive 
mental  processes.  As  in  Paracelsus,  Browning  went 
back  of  the  great  characters  of  history  to  one  less 
known  and  less  appreciated. 

Sordello  is  a  troubadour,  forerunner  of  Dante 
C'thy  forerunner,  Florentine!"),  and  the  same  of 
whom  Dante  writes  in  Purgatorio.  Little  enough  is 
known  of  the  real  Sordello,  merely  that  he  was 
"  mentioned  by  his  contemporary,  Rolandin,  who 
states  that  he  eloped  with  Cuniza,  wife  of  Count 
Richard  de  Saint  Bonifazio,  and  sister  of  Ezzelino  da 


34  Browning. 

Romano.  Some  of  his  poems  still  survive,  and  from 
them  a  few  more  facts  relating  to  the  poet  may  be 
gleaned,  and  that  is  the  whole  of  our  real  knowledge 
of  him."  ^ 

There  are  various  stories  of  his  success  in  love  and 
prowess  in  war  concocted  by  later  historians ;  but 
none  of  them  can  be  verified.  The  only  valuable 
testimony  to  indicate  that  Sordello  was  different  from 
the  plausible,  wild-hearted,  foolish,  and  gay  singers 
who  were  his  contemporaries  comes  from  Dante's 
notice  of  him. 

He  is  the  spirit  standing  in  "high,  abstracted 
mood,"  the  "  shadow,  in  itself  absorbed,"  who,  hear- 
ing Virgil  declaring  his  country  to  be  Mantua,  cries  : 
"  Mantuan  !  1  am  thy  countryman,  Sordello  "  ;  and 
seven  times  exchanges  courteous  greetings  with  him. 

In  a  letter  to  Miss  Barrett,  Browning  speaks  of 
reading  Purgatorio  and  being  struck  by  a  new  sig- 
nificance in  the  first  speech  of  the  group  to  which 
Sordello  belongs  as  "well  describing  the  man  and 
his  purpose  and  fate  "  in  his  own  poem. 

This  is  the  passage  in  Gary's  translation  : 

We  all 
By  violence  died,  and  to  our  latest  hour 
Were  sinners,  but  then  warn'd  by  light  from  heaven  ; 
So  that,  repenting  and  forgiving,  we 
Did  issue  out  of  life  at  peace  with  God, 
Who,  with  desire  to  see  him  fills  our  hearts. 

On  such  a  slight  framework  Browning  builds  his 

'  See  Berdoe's  Browning  Encyclopedia,  p.  480. 


Pauline,  paracelsue,  an^  SorbcHo.         35 

hero,  developing  his  soul  according  to  a  purely  per- 
sonal conception  of  the  way  in  which  the  soul  of 
a  true  poet  placed  in  such  an  environment  might 
develop.  The  narrative,  not  the  dramatic,  form  is 
chosen  for  the  poem,  apparently  with  the  idea  of  ap- 
peasing the  critics.  In  the  opening  lines  the  poet 
deprecates  the  necessity  of  such  a  choice,  but  resigns 
himself  with  the  protest : 

But  it  seems 
Your  setters-forth  of  unexampled  themes, 
Makers  of  quite  new  men,  producing  them, 
Would  best  chalk  broadly  on  each  vesture's  hem 
The  wearer's  quality  ;  or  take  their  stand. 
Motley  on  back  and  pointing-pole  in  hand, 
Beside  him. 

This  comes  near  to  pathos  in  view  of  the  reputa- 
tion Sordello  has  attained  as  the  most  involved,  be- 
wildering, and  altogether  wantonly  incomprehensible 
poem  ever  written  by  Browning. 

Dr.  Berdoe  calls  Sordello  Browning's  Hamlet,  and 
offers  in  defence  of  the  difficulties  ''  inseparable  from 
the  attempt  to  trace  the  development  of  a  soul,"  the 
comment  that  "  such  a  work  without  obscurity  could 
only  deal  with  a  very  simple  soul." 

Complex  as  Hamlet  is,  however,  and  subtle  from 
the  very  trait  that  lies  at  the  source  of  gordello's  sub- 
tlety,— irresolution,  weakness  of  will,— the  tempera- 
ment of  the  Danish  prince  imposes  itself  at  once 
upon  the  imagination  of  the  reader,  who  may  or  may 
not  have  the  true  conception  of  him,  but  who  cannot 
fail  to  have  a  very  strong  impression. 


36  Browning, 

Of  Sordello,  on  the  other  hand,  it  is  difficult  to 
get  any  impression  at  all.  If  we  read  attentively  and 
go  back  and  read  over  again,  v^e  presently  grasp  the 
idea  that  he  is  first  an  eager  boy,  self-consciousness 
all  astir  within  him,  seeing  himself  a  conqueror  in 
every  field ;  that  he  finds  his  supremacy  in  the  art 
of  singing,  and  endangers  his  self-respect  by  lowering 
his  ideal,  courting  popularity  by  cheapening  his 
poetry ;  that  he  then  responds  to  the  exigent  love 
bestowed  upon  him  by  Palma,  who  sees  him  as  he 
once  saw  himself, — a  doer  of  fine  deeds ;  that  the 
impulse  of  pity  awakes  within  him  urging  him  to 
espouse  the  cause  of  humanity,  the  cause  at  that 
moment  of  the  Guelphs  against  the  Ghibellines  ;  that, 
face  to  face  with  the  temptation  of  knowing  himself 
made  suddenly  head  of  all  the  Ghibellines,  the  Im- 
perial badge  upon  his  neck,  he  struggles  with  this 
temptation,  inclining  now  and  again  to  yield  and 
taste  the  joy  of  ruling,  and  doing  good  by  ruling  well, 
dallying  with  the  dangerous  uncertainty  of  the  dis- 
tinction between  right  and  wrong ;  that  finally  he 
cuts  the  problem  by  flinging  the  badge  to  the  ground, 
and  dying  at  the  moment  of  his  renunciation. 

His  arrival  at  this  ultimate  crisis  is  deferred  by 
many  turnings  of  his  mind  upon  itself,  and  it  is  some- 
times a  subject  of  wonder  that  so  many  words  could 
be  used  without  the  illuminating  phrase  finding  its 
way. 

Mr.  Browning  himself  had  the  idea  that  some  of 
the  thoughts  in  Sordello  could  not  be  spoken  very 


Pauline,  paracelsue,  anb  Sor^e^o.        37 

clearly— not  easily,  at  least.  And  to  a  certain  extent 
he  was,  of  course,  right.  But  there  is  a  passage  in 
the  third  book  of  Sordello,  commencing  : 

The  common  sort,  the  crowd. 
Exist,  perceive;  with  Being  are  endowed. 
However  slight,  distinct  from  what  they  See, 
However  bounded; 

and  ending : 

My  own  concern  was  just  to  bring  my  mind 
Behold,  just  extricate,  for  my  acquist, 
Each  object  suffered  stifle  in  the  mist 
Which  hazard,  custom,  blindness  interpose 
Betwixt  things  and  myself. 

Compare  it  with  the  famous  soliloquy   in  the 
fourth  act  of  Hamlet,  commencing, 

How  all  occasions  do  inform  against  me, 

and  the  difference  between  direct  statement  and  in- 
volved statement  of  self-analysis  is  at  once  perceived. 
With  Hamlet  the  thought  has  been  assimilated,  and 
the  expression  is  calm  and  adequate  and  in  its 
essence  unmistakable.  Sordello,  on  the  other  hand, 
struggles,  leaps  from  one  image  to  another,  and  gives 
the  effect  not  so  much  of  strong  self-absorption  as  of 
disordered  nerves.  Mr.  Dowden,  to  be  sure,  declares 
that  as  a  rule  the  style  is  "vigorously  straightfor- 
ward," but  there  are  so  many  exceptions  to  this 
"  rule,"  that  the  average  mind  is  dominated  by  them 
in  making  its  estimate  of  the  poem. 

Then  there  is  again  the  perplexity  so  noticeable  in 
Pauline  and  Paracelsus:  the    similes  drawn  from 


38  Browning. 

Browning's  well  equipped  mind,  and  doubtless  so 
familiar  to  him  as  to  seem  to  require  no  clarifying 
process,  are  frequently  quite  outside  the  range  of  a 
capacity  much  above  that  of  the  average — even  of 
the  average  Browning  reader ! 

Now,  add  grammatical  peculiarities,  elliptical  con- 
structions, inversions,  and  involutions,  and  a  number 
of  odd  words,  "writhled  tongue,"  ''slither  through," 
^'mollituous,"  ^^fastuous,"  ''shent,"  '^  cautelous," 
''ginglingly,"  and  so  on  ;  and  the  measure  of 
Sordello's  obscurity  will  be  sufficiently  suggested. 

The  next  question  to  be  asked  is  usually,  "  Does 
the  reading  of  Sordello,  under  these  adverse  condi- 
tions, pay  ?" — a  question  which  no  intelligent  reader 
would  consent  to  have  answered  for  him.  It  may, 
however,  be  said  that  the  story  oi  Sordello  as  Brown- 
ing conceives  it  would  be  interesting  if  told  in  the 
plainest  of  prose  (as  it  is  told  in  half  a  dozen  excel- 
lent commentaries);  that  there  are  passages  of  great 
beauty  in  the  poem ;  that  the  thought  when  once 
perceived  is  seldom  trivial,  though  not  by  any  means 
always  tremendous,  and  that  the  moral  problem 
involved — the  forcing  of  the  will  through  intellectual 
sophistries  to  a  definite  choice  between  good  and 
evil — is  one  of  continual  importance. 

When  Browning  dedicated  the  1863  edition  to 
M.  Milsand,  he  said  of  the  poem  : 

''  I  wrote  it  twenty-five  years  ago  for  only  a  few, 
counting  even  in  these  on  somewhat  more  care 
about  its  subject  than  they  really  had.     My  own 


Robert  Brozvning. 


From  the  painting  by  Rudolf  Lehim 
National  Portrait  Gallery y  London. 


Pauline,  paracel0U6,  ant)  Sorbello.        39 

faults  of  expression  were  many,  but  with  care  for  a 
man  or  book  such  would  be  surmounted,  and  with- 
out it  what  avails  the  faultlessness  of  either." 

It  is  possible  that  "  care  for  the  man,"  for  the  later 
Browning  of  Pippa  Passes,  and  of  Men  and  Women, 
has  done  more  than  any  change  of  popular  taste  to 
stimulate  interest  in  Sordello,  which  is,  after  all,  the 
product  of  boyhood. 


CHAPTER  III. 
THE  DRAMAS. 

WHEN  Browning  laid  aside Sordello  in  order 
to  write  a  play  for  Macready  he  reaped 
from  the  momentary  loss  a  lasting  gain. 
It  was  the  very  moment  at  which  he  needed  a  con- 
trolling and  restraining  influence  from  without  to 
keep  him  from  spinning  out  of  his  own  self-conscious- 
ness an  interminable  web  of  introspective  philosophy. 

He  was  confronted  by  the  necessity  of  interesting 
an  audience  which  could  not  be  supposed  to  listen 
exclusively  to  monologues,  but  demanded  interplay 
of  events,  the  march  of  a  thoroughly  constructed 
plot,  and  the  counterchange  of  different  emotions. 
With  these  requirements  in  mind,  he  entered  upon 
his  apprenticeship  as  a  playwright,  missing  this  vo- 
cation to  succeed  the  better  as  a  dramatist  for  the 
discipline  to  which  he  submitted  himself.  His  failure 
in  writing  for  the  stage  was  not  due  entirely,  perhaps 
not  chiefly,  to  the  defects  of  his  method. 

At  the  very  beginning  misfortune  attacked  him. 
His  first  play,  Strafford,  ran  triumphantly  for  a  few 


Z\)c  2)rama0.  41 

nights,  successful  in  spite  of  a  number  of  poor  actors 
and  a  shabby  setting.  Then  one  of  the  leading 
actors  deserted  for  higher  pay,  the  play  collapsed, 
and  that  opportunity  was  ended. 

y^  Blot  in  the  'Scutcheon  was  written  in  five  days' 
time,  at  the  request  of  Macready,  who  professed 
himself  delighted  with  it.  But  Macready  was  on 
the  edge  of  a  financial  precipice  and  toppled  over 
precisely  at  the  moment  for  ruining  Browning's 
second  chance.  These  adventitious  circumstances, 
and  the  fact  that  in  spite  of  his  best  endeavours  his 
plays,  like  his  poems,  were  unfashionably  meta- 
physical, furnished  a  sufficient  explanation  of  his 
early  discouragement  in  this  field  of  activity.  Un- 
doubtedly he  was  in  advance  of  his  time. 

In  the  half-century  since  passed,  a  notable  change 
has  taken  place  in  public  taste.  Fifty  years  ago  Ibsen 
had  not  yet  written  his  first  drama,  and  the  majority 
of  people  interested  in  the  theatre  shared  Mr.  Ber- 
doe's  opinion  that  "  an  analytic  poet  is  for  the  study, 
not  for  the  boards."  Those  who  feel  differently  still 
constitute  a  minority  only  of  the  great  mass  of  play- 
goers ;  but  the  number  has  steadily  increased.  If  to- 
day an  actress  who  has  made  Ibsen  acceptable  should 
take  the  part  of  Mildred  in  A  Blot  in  the  'Scutcheon, 
or  of  the  Duchess  in  Colombe's  Birthday,  she  would 
not  be  forced  to  conquer  a  cold  and  puzzled  audi- 
ence ;  she  would  find  one  exceptionally  interested  in 
the  play  of  character  and  in  the  nature  of  the  problems 
therein  involved. 


42  Browning, 

There  is  indeed  evidence  that  such  an  actress 
would  have  been  received  more  sympathetically  in 
the  United  States  than  in  England.  As  early  as  1854 
Mr.  Moncure  D.  Conway  wrote  of  the  scene  at  the 
close  of  the  fourth  act  of  Colombe's  Birthday  : 

"1  remember  well  to  have  seen  a  vast  miscel- 
laneous crowd  in  an  American  theatre  hanging  with 
breathless  attention  upon  every  word  of  this  inter- 
view down  to  the  splendid  climax  when,  in  obedience 
to  the  Duchess's  direction  to  Valence  how  he  should 
reveal  his  love  to  the  lady  she  so  little  suspects  to  be 
herself,  he  kneels — every  heart  evidently  feeling  each 
word  as  an  electric  touch,  and  all  giving  vent  at 
last  to  their  emotion  in  round  after  round  of  hearty 
applause." 

Mr.  Sharp,  defining  the  difference  between  Shake- 
speare's method  and  Browning's,  seeks  to  prove  that 
the  method  of  each  was  'Mn  profound  harmony  with 
the  dominant  sentiment  of  the  age  in  which  he  lived." 
The  Elizabethan  age  was  "  rich  in  romantic  adventure 
of  the  mind  as  well  as  of  the  body,  and  above  all 
others,  save  that  of  the  Renaissance  in  Italy,  animated 
by  a  passionate  curiosity." 

The  Victorian  age,  on  the  other  hand,  has  been 
"  prolific  of  novel  and  vast  Titanic  struggles  of  the 
human  spirit  to  reach  those  Gates  of  Truth  whose 
lowest  steps  are  the  scarce  discernible  stars  and 
farthest  suns  we  scan,  by  piling  Ossas  of  searching 
speculation  upon  Pelions  of  hardly-won  positive 
knowledge. "   The  * '  highest  exemplar "  of  the  former 


Zbc  Brama0,  43 

age  is  Shakespeare,"  Browning  the  "  profoundest 
interpreter  of  the  latter "  ;  and  therefore  criticism 
of  Browning's  dramas  should  be  marked  by  '*  the 
ablation  of  the  chronic  Shakespearian  comparison." 

Professor  Henry  Jones  is  not  inclined  wholly  to 
accept  such  a  judgment.  In  an  article  on  Browning 
as  a  Dramatic  Poet  he  finds  his  too  dominant  and 
exclusive  concern  with  moral  problems  to  be  a  serious 
defect : 

"Nothing  has  interest  for  him  except  right  and 
wrong,"  he  says.  "This,  no  doubt,  is  his  strength 
and  the  crown  of  his  glory  amongst  the  poets  ;  it  is 
also  his  weakness.  He  cannot  forget  the  mighty 
issues  which  hang  on  paltry  facts  and  passing 
thoughts  ;  and  life  is  to  him  'all  astrain.' 

"He  has  a  surpassingly  quick  eye  for  moral 
effects  ;  for  the  consequences  that  reverberate  end- 
lessly in  the  world  of  spirit,  darkening  destiny  into 
tragedy,  and  making  even  the  movement  of  the  Good 
awful  in  its  magnitude ;  but  he  is  generally  blind  to 
the  lighter  play  of  things,— to  the  fanciful  idea  that 
brings  nothing  but  laughter  in  its  train,  to  the  emo- 
tion that  only  ripples  the  surface,  to  the  inconse- 
quence and  incoherence,  the  oddities  and  inversions, 
in  which  Comedy,  forgetting  the  stern  rule  of  law, 
always  revels." 

Certainly  in  the  Victorian  age,  as  in  the  Eliza- 
bethan, happy  accidents  jostle  the  more  significant 
events  of  life;  fun  and  folly  tread  the  same  stage  with 
passion ;  the  smallest  compensations  and  the  common- 


44  ^Browning. 

est  satisfactions  go  side  by  side  with  great  problems 
and  great  needs.  Now,  as  then,  the  natural  environ- 
ment relieves  the  tension  of  tragic  moments,  and 
Shakespeare,  as  Professor  Jones  has  said,  lets  "the 
common  world  come  knocking  at  the  door."  That 
Browning  does  not,  is  hardly  the  fault  of  the  age. 
If  we  may  not  hope  for  a  Shakespeare  to  interpret 
our  manifold  social  and  individual  life,  we  need  not 
on  that  account  deny  the  insufficiency  of  a  less  varied 
genius.  Our  introspective  tendency  and  our  concern 
for  the  moral  law  are  vividly  and  powerfully  repre- 
sented in  Browning's  work  ;  but  many  sides  of  our 
modern  world  he  touches  not  at  all ;  surely  his 
critics  serve  him  best  when  they  recognise  frankly 
that  his  mind  was  not  sufficiently  broad  or  inclusive 
to  cover  many  aspects  of  the  human  comedy. 

It  would  be  absurd,  of  course,  to  assume  that, 
because  Browning  wrote  plays  deficient  in  variety,  he 
was  not  essentially  a  dramatic  poet  in  the  sense  of 
representing  human  conduct  under  conditions  that 
bring  out  its  significance. 

Stevenson's  idea  of  ''a  good  serious  play"  was 
that  "it  must  be  founded  on  one  of  the  passionate 
cruces  of  life,  where  duty  and  inclination  come  nobly 
to  the  grapple,"  and  no  writer  has  answered  this 
demand  more  consistently  than  Browning.  In  every 
one  of  his  plays  (as  well  as  in  the  majority  of  his 
more  important  poems)  there  is  not  merely  a  moral 
problem  but  a  moral  struggle. 

In  Strafford,  Wentworth  must  decide  between 


^be  Bramae,  45 

king  and  country,  Pym  between  England's  good 
and  Wentworth's  life  ;  in  y^  Blot  in  the  'Scutcheon,  it 
is  a  question  of  love  against  family  honour ;  in  Co- 
lombe's  Birthday,  the  less  fiery  ordeal  of  choosing 
between  a  lover  and  a  duchy  ;  in  The  Return  of  the 
Druses,  truth  against  deception  ;  in  Luria,  loyalty  to 
a  cause  against  revenge.  And  in  almost  every  case 
the  choice  is  made  sufficiently  difficult  to  justify  the 
struggle.  Sin  is  depicted  not  as  a  monster  of  horrid 
mien,  nor  yet  as  an  allegorical  figure  of  inconceivable 
loveliness,  but  reasonable,  convincing,  interesting, 
and  potent.  To  discover  the  parting  of  the  ways 
frequently  demands  an  intellectual  vision  so  acute 
that  the  subsequent  moral  decision  seems  a  matter 
almost  of  secondary  importance. 

This,  certainly,  is  the  quality  that  gives  weight  to 
Browning's  influence  as  a  moralist  and  puts  him  on 
the  side  of  the  great  teachers  as  opposed  to  the  con- 
ventional pedagogues.  His  face  is  set  toward  the 
high  places,  but  never  does  he  attempt  to  hearten 
his  followers  with  factitious  descriptions  of  a  bright 
and  flowery  outlook.  To  win  through  is  no  con- 
temptible triumph  ;  to  fail  is  at  least  to  have  grappled 
with  an  enemy  of  grim  resistance. 

Exploration  in  this  region  of  moral  and  intel- 
lectual obscurity,  of  subtle  influences  and  complex 
issues,  is  not  attempted  by  a  simple  mind.  The 
proof  of  Browning's  genius  lies  not  in  the  fact 
that,  like  Childe  Roland,  he  joined  "the  lost  advent- 
urers, his  peers,"  to  cross  "bog,  clay  and  rubble. 


46  Browning. 

sand,  and  stark  black  dearth  "  in  his  search  for  the 
hidden  truth  about  human  nature,  but  in  the  fact 
that  at  the  highest  point  of  his  achievement  as  a  poet 
he  pushed  farther  than  others  and  revealed  "as  in 
a  sheet  of  flame  "  the  goal  aspired  to.  We  feel  that 
the  victory  is  his,  despite  the  devious  excursions  of 
the  plays  and  the  longer  monologues,  in  the  passion 
and  gravity  and  superb  simplicity  of  the  shorter  po- 
ems that  disclose  his  incontestable  power.  Through 
appalling  perplexities  he  forced  his  way  to  the 
final  vision:  "  Childe  Roland  to  the  Dark  Tower 
came." 

In  1848  Lowell,  writing  of  Browning's  plays  and 
poems,  assigned  him  his  place  as  a  thinker  because 
of  his  "eminent  qualities  as  a  dramatist,"  and  ex- 
plained himself  in  somewhat  formal  and  boyish 
phrases  which,  nevertheless,  throw  light.  He  was 
himself  fresh  from  study  of  the  older  dramatists,  and 
his  appreciation  was  rather  more  than  mere  literary 
judgment. 

"This  dramatic  faculty,"  he  says,  "  is  a  far  rarer 
one  than  we  are  apt  to  imagine.  It  does  not  consist 
in  a  familiarity  with  stage  effect,  in  the  capacity  for 
inventing  and  developing  a  harmonious  and  intricate 
plot,  nor  in  an  appreciation  of  passion  as  it  reveals 
itself  in  outward  word  or  action.  It  lies  not  in  a 
knowledge  of  character  so  much  as  in  an  imaginative 
conception  of  the  springs  of  it.  Neither  of  these 
singly,  nor  all  of  them  together  without  that  unitary 
faculty  which  fuses  the  whole  and  subjects  them  all 


Zbc  2)rama0.  47 

to  the  motion  of  a  single  will,  constitute  a  dramatist. 
.  .  .  In  his  [Browning's]  dramas  we  find  always 
a  leading  design  and  a  conscientious  subordination 
of  all  the  parts  to  it.  In  each  one  of  them  also,  below 
the  more  apparent  and  exterior  sources  of  interest, 
we  find  an  illustration  of  some  general  idea  which 
bears  only  a  philosophical  relation  to  the  particular 
characters,  thoughts,  and  incidents,  and  without 
which  the  drama  is  still  complete  in  itself,  but  which 
yet  binds  together  and  sustains  the  whole,  and  con- 
duces to  that  unity  for  which  we  esteem  these  works 
so  highly. 

"  Many  English  dramas  have  been  written  within 
a  few  years,  the  authors  of  which  have  established 
their  claim  to  the  title  of  poet.  We  cannot  but 
allow  that  we  find  in  them  fine  thoughts  finely  ex- 
pressed, passages  of  dignified  and  sustained  elo- 
quence, and  as  adequate  a  conception  of  character  as 
the  reading  of  history  and  the  study  of  models  will 
furnish.  But  it  is  only  in  Mr.  Browning  that  we  find 
enough  of  freshness,  vigour,  and  grasp,  and  of  that 
clear  insight  and  conception  which  enable  the  artist 
to  construct  characters  from  within,  and  so  to  make 
them  real  things  and  not  images  as  to  warrant  our 
granting  the  honour  due  to  the  Dramatist."^ 

To  realise  the  essential  justice  of  this  discrimina- 
tion it  must  be  remembered  that  when  we  speak  of 
the  English  "  drama  "  of  the  first  half  of  the  present 

•  See  April  number  of  The  North  /imerican  Review,  1848. 


48  Brownina. 

century,  we  speak  of  something  that  had  form  but 
was  void. 

Bulwer's  plays,  The  Lady  of  Lyons  and  Richelieu 
in  particular,  have  shown  the  most  staying  quality, 
but  aside  from  the  hopelessly  commonplace  produc- 
tions of  Sheridan  Knowles,  Home's  Cosmo  Ciwd  Orion, 
and  the  Ion  of  Talfourd  fairly  represent  the  flower  of 
that  forgotten  period — Alieni  temporis  flores,  all  of 
them.  In  ten  years'  time  Browning  himself  was 
deprecating  and  excusing  his  youthful  enthusiasm 
over  Ion  and  Miss  Barrett  was  comparing  its  "pol- 
ished rhetoric  "  with  the  "  living  poetry  "  oi  Luria. 

It  was  not  surprising  that  Macready  felt  it  would 
be  "some  recompense  for  the  miseries,  the  humilia- 
tions, the  heart-sickening  disgusts"  which  he  had 
endured  in  his  profession  "  if  he  had  succeeded  in 
awakening  in  Browning  "a  spirit  of  poetry  whose 
influence  would  elevate,  ennoble,  and  adorn  "  the 
"  degraded  drama." 

Browning  was  qualified  for  his  Strafford  by  his 
work  on  Forster's  Life  of  Strafford}  Just  how  much 
this  work  amounted  to  has  not  been  precisely  deter- 
mined. Dr.  Furnivall  is  quite  certain  that  almost 
the  whole  of  the  Life  should  be  credited  to  Brown- 
ing, and  in  his  letter  to  the  Pall  Mall  Gazette  (April, 
1870)  gave  the  circumstances  as  follows  : 

"The  volume  was  published  in  1836.  John  For- 
ster  wrote  the  life  of  Eliot,  the  first  in  the  volume, 

'  See  second  volume  oi  Lives  of  Eminent  British  Statesmen  in  Lardner's  Cabinet 
Cyclopcedia. 


Zbc  Dramas.  49 

and  began  that  of  Strafford.  He  then  fell  ill  ;  and  as 
he  was  anxious  to  produce  the  book  in  the  time 
agreed  on,  Browning  offered  to  finish  Strafford  for 
him,  on  his  handing  over  all  the  material  he  had 
accumulated  for  it.  Forster  was  greatly  relieved  by 
Browning's  kindness.  The  poet  set  to  work,  com- 
pleted Strafford's  life  on  his  own  lines,  in  accordance 
with  his  own  conception  of  Strafford's  character,  but 
generously  said  nothing  about  it  till  after  Forster's 
death.  Then  he  told  a  few  of  his  friends — me  among 
them — of  how  he  had  helped  Forster.  On  my  tell- 
ing Professor  Gardiner  of  this,  I  found  that  he  knew 
it,  and  had  been  long  convinced  that  the  conception 
of  Strafford  in  this  Lardner  Life  was  not  John  For- 
ster's but  was  Robert  Browning's.  The  other  day 
Professor  Gardiner  urged  me  to  make  the  fact  of 
Browning's  authorship  public  ;  and  1  do  so  now, 
though  I  have  frequently  mentioned  it  to  friends  in 
private  ;  and  at  the  Browning  Society  when  a  mem- 
ber has  said :  '  It  is  curious  how  closely  Browning 
has  followed  his  authority,  Forster's  Life  0/ Strafford/ 
I  have  answered,  'Yes,  because  he  wrote  it  himself.' 
We  thus  understand  why,  when  Macready  asked 
Browning  on  May  26,  1836,  to  write  him  a  play, 
the  poet  suggested  Strafford  as  its  subject ;  and  why, 
the  Life  being  finished  in  1836,  the  play  was  printed 
and  played  in  1837." 

This  conviction  of  Browning's  authorship  of  the 
Life  resulted  in  its  republication  after  his  death  with 
his  name  on  the  title-page.     In  Poet  Lore  for  1894 


50  BrownitiG* 

Mr.  Kingsland  questions  the  wisdom  of  such  a  step. 
The  re-issue  called  forth  a  protest  from  Mrs.  Forster, 
who  asserted  that  her  husband  was  too  honourable 
a  man  to  allow  another's  work  to  be  put  forward 
as  his,  and  maintained  that  the  work  was  almost 
wholly  done  by  him. 

To  this  conclusion  the  original  preface  to  Strafford 
certainly  points.  "The  portraits  are,  I  think,  faith- 
ful," Browning  wrote,  "  and  I  am  exceedingly  fortu- 
nate in  being  able,  in  proof  of  this,  to  refer  to  the 
subtle  and  eloquent  exposition  of  the  characters  of 
Eliot  and  Strafford,  in  the  Lives  of  Eminent  British 
Statesmen,  now  in  the  course  of  publication  in 
Lardner's  Cydopcedia,  by  a  writer  whom  I  am  proud 
to  call  my  friend."  Mr.  Kingsland  is  quite  justified 
in  thinking  it  inconceivable  that  Browning  should 
have  written  in  this  way  if  he  had  been  the  sole  or 
even  the  chief  author  of  the  Life,  and  in  assuming 
that  the  "  help  "  Browning  gave  Forster  in  the  work 
consisted  of  supervision,  correction  of  proof  sheets, 
etc.,  in  place  of  anything  like  original  composition. 

One  thing  only  disturbs  a  final  judgment  based 
on  that  of  Mr.  Kingsland.  In  the  recently  published 
Letters  we  fmd  Miss  Barrett  alluding  to  Browning's 
"Strafford"  (the  Life)  and  correcting  herself  with 
these  significant  words  :  "Mr.  Forster's  '  Strafford,' 
I  beg  his  pardon  for  not  attributing  to  him  other 
men's  works." 

If  we  take  this  remark  seriously  we  are  again 
thrust  back  upon  the  theory  that  Browning  used 


Zhc  2)rama6,  51 

Forster's  notes  for  a  framework  and  filled  in  the  Life 
from  his  own  impressions.  His  generosity  in  friend- 
ship, and  his  quite  unusual  modesty  in  the  matter  of 
claiming  recognition,  make  it  possible  to  assume  that 
he  sincerely  underestimated  his  own  part  of  the 
work  and  regarded  the  notes  as  the  important  and 
decisive  element  in  the  Life.  This  would  account  for 
the  statement  in  the  preface  to  the  play. 

An  authoritative  explanation,  however,  is  the  only 
possible  solution  to  a  puzzle  somewhat  more  intricate 
than  Sordello. 

Professor  Gardiner  finds  the  play  Strafford  so  in- 
accurate from  the  historical  point  of  view  that  ''  the 
critic  may  dispense  with  the  thankless  task  of  point- 
ing out  discrepancies."  The  grasp  of  character, 
nevertheless,  seems  to  him  successful.  ''  Every  time 
I  read  the  play,"  he  says,  ''  I  feel  more  certain  that 
Mr.  Browning  has  seized  the  real  Strafford,  the  man 
of  critical  brain,  of  rapid  decision  and  tender  heart, 
who  strove  for  the  good  of  his  nation  without 
sympathy  for  the  generation  in  which  he  lived,"  and 
he  adds  the  more  surprising  opinion  that ''  Charles  I., 
too,  with  his  faults  perhaps  exaggerated,  is  the  real 
Charles."  A  fragment  of  the  real  Charles,  possibly, 
but  like  all  the  characters  an  incomplete  conception. 
Decidedly  Miss  Barrett  was  right  in  thinking  Strafford 
the  poorest  of  the  plays  so  far  as  literary  merit  goes. 
It  shows  that  Browning  at  twenty-five  had  but  a 
small  proportion  of  the  capacity  to  plan  and  to  con- 
struct that  marks  the  larger  writers,~the  architect- 


52  ^Srowning. 

onic  faculty  that  set  Marlowe  in  the  front  rank  as  a 
dramatist  while  he  was  still  a  boy  in  college. 

There  is  also  a  want  of  sturdiness  about  the  con- 
ception of  the  characters  curiously  opposed  to  the 
forcible  aspect  of  Browning's  later  types.  A  contem- 
porary reviewer  justly  complains  of  the  sentimental 
manner  in  which  even  "the  rough  old  Puritans" 
address  each  other:  "A  sort  of  affected,  fondling 
tone  which  perfectly  disconcerts  us."  The  jerking 
style— what  Mr.  Masson  calls  "the  abrupt  gesture 
of  impatient  minds  " — the  same  critic  attributes  to 
stage  influence,  declaring  that  tragic  actors,  "  whose 
chief  talent  lies  in  giving  an  effect  to  isolated  points 
and  passages  in  which  half  the  meaning  is  suppressed, 
are  naturally  fond  of  this  mode  of  writing  par  sac- 
cades,  as  the  French  call  it." 

In  support  of  his  theory  he  produces  parallel 
passages  from  Strafford's  soliloquies  and  the  conver- 
sation of  Mr.  Alfred  jingle  —  a  somewhat  startling 
pedigree  for  the  style  so  long  identified  as  a  Browning 
idiosyncrasy. 

It  is  interesting  to  note  that  in  this  criticism  of 
Strafford,  which  occupies  several  pages  of  the  Edin- 
burgh Review,  the  reason  given  for  devoting  so  much 
attention  to  the  work  is  "the  notable  phenomenon 
of  the  favourable  run  of  a  simple  historical  play,  on 
an  English  subject,  by  an  author  little  known,  and 
unassisted,  as  far  as  can  be  discovered,  by  any  advan- 
tage of  puffing  or  green-room  connection." 

This  evidence  that  Strafford  was  certainly  not  an 


Zbc  Dramas.  53 

*' impossible"  play  for  the  stage  is  corroborated  by 
the  notices  in  the  daily  papers  following  the  first 
and  second  nights  of  the  performance.  The  Times 
pronounced  it  a  dramatic  effort "  of  no  little  promise  "  ; 
the  Morning  Herald  said  that  it  was  received  with 
applause  "  but  not  so  much  as  it  deserved,"  and  called 
it  an  acting  tragedy  "  equally  remarkable  on  our  stage 
and  in  our  literature"  ;  the  Morning  Post  devoted  its 
attention  mainly  to  the  actors,  and  warned  the  author 
that  if  he  were  a  candidate  for  immortality  he  must 
do  much  more  before  attaining  it  as  a  dramatic  poet, 
but  admitted  that  the  tragedy  was  *'  most  favourably 
received." 

Browning's  second  and  third  plays,  The  Return  of 
the  Druses  and  A  Blot  in  the  'Scutcheon,  followed  in 
1843,  after  an  interval  of  six  years.  From  Sordello 
Browning  had  turned  "to  the  healthy  natures  of  a 
grand  epoch  "  by  way  of  freshening  "  a  jaded  mind," 
as  he  confessed  in  the  original  preface  to  Strafford. 
In  The  Return  of  the  Druses  he  joyfully  retreats  from 
the  clear  daylight  of  English  history  to  old  legends 
shadowy  in  the  distance  of  time  and  space. 

The  Druses  are  a  tribe  found  chiefly  in  the  south- 
ern part  of  the  mountainous  region  of  the  Lebanon  ; 
they  are  mysterious  and  uncommunicative  respecting 
the  religion  of  others  and  coveting  no  proselytes ; 
they  believe  in  the  unity  of  God  and  in  His  incarnation 
in  human  form,  holding  that  He  was  incarnated  more 
than  once  on  earth.  They  are  noted  for  their  hospi- 
tality to  strangers,  and  one  of  the  tenets  of  their  faith 


54  Browning. 

is  :  "  Mutual  help  under  all  conditions."  In  the  year 
996  A.D.  the  reign  of  the  Caliph  Hakim  Biamrillahi 
began,  and  for  twenty-five  years  continued,  a  quar- 
ter-century of  insane  and  monstrous  tyranny.  The 
Caliph  believed  himself  "an  incarnation  of  the  Divine 
intelligence,"  and  after  his  assassination  his  apostles 
preached  the  doctrine  of  his  second  coming.  This  is 
the  point  that  fixes  the  plan  of  Browning's  tragedy. 
A  colony  of  the  Lebanon  Druses  is  shown  on  a 
little  island  of  the  southern  Sporades.  The  time  is 
the  fifteenth  century.  Djabal,  the  principal  character 
of  the  drama,  is  an  initiated  Druse,  son  of  the  last 
emir,  whose  family  has  been  massacred  in  the  island, 
and  who,  escaping,  has  since  spent  his  time  in 
Europe.  The  Druse  colony  is  under  the  rule  of  the 
Knights  Hospitallers  of  Rhodes,  whose  prefect  is  a 
cruel  and  oppressive  governor.  Djabal  returns,  re- 
solved to  free  his  people,  and  is  welcomed  as  the 
Messiah,  the  re-incarnated  Hakim.  He  accepts  the 
character  and  lets  himself  be  worshipped,  now  de- 
luding himself  with  his  sense  of  a  divine  mission  only 
to  be  accomplished  under  a  guise  of  divinity,  now 
struggling  with  a  desire  to  appear  in  his  own  person 
and  challenge  fate  honestly  as  a  merely  human 
leader  of  the  fanatical  enthusiasts  whose  disillus- 
ionment would  doubtless  mean  their  ruin  and  his 
own.  The  interest  of  the  play  is  centred  in  the 
outcome  of  this  conflict  in  Djabal's  mind,  and  the 
situation  is  complicated  by  his  love  for  Anael,  a 
young  Druse  girl  who  has  vowed  to  marry  no  one 


Zhc  3)rama0.  55 

but  the  man  who  shall  deliver  her  countrymen  and 
lead  them  back  to  Lebanon.  Anael  worships  Djabal 
as  a  god,  but  finds  it  impossible  to  think  of  him  as 
other  than  man.     "  Never  a  god  to  me  !  "  she  cries. 

'T  is  the  Man's  hand. 
Eye,  voice!     Oh,  do  you  veil  these  to  our  people, 
Or  but  to  me  ?    To  them,  1  think,  to  them! 
And  brightness  is  their  veil,  shadow,  my  truth! 

This  consciousness  of  involuntary  scepticism  spurs 
her  to  more  eager  action,  and  as  Djabal's  plan  of  de- 
liverance involves  killing  the  prefect,  she  determines 
to  take  upon  herself  the  murder,  in  order  to  raise  her- 
self to  Djabal's  level  of  devotion.  Djabal  discovers 
her  immediately  after  she  has  stabbed  the  prefect,  he 
having  come  on  the  same  mission.  Overcome,  he 
confesses  his  imposture  to  her,  and  in  her  response 
the  Browning  creed  of  loyalty  finds  characteristic 
utterance.    At  first  repelled,  she  bids  him 

Crouch! 
Bow  to  the  dust,  thou  basest  of  our  kind! 

then  rallies,  and  urges  him  to  open  confession. 
''Come,"  she  says,  ''to  the  Druses  thou  hast 
wronged ! " 

Confess, 
Now  that  the  end  is  gained — (1  love  thee  now — ) 
That  thou  hast  so  deceived  them — (perchance  love  thee 
Better  than  ever).     Come,  receive  their  doom 
Of  infamy!     Oh,  best  of  all  I  love  thee! 
Shame  with  the  man,  no  triumph  with  the  god. 
Be  mine!    Come! 

But  Djabal  cannot  bring  his  mind  to  this  height  of 


56  Browning. 

renunciation  ;  he  refuses  to  confess  publicly  ;  and 
Anael  in  contempt  of  his  cowardice  betrays  him.  He 
accepts  his  fate  in  a  long  speech  of  pure  introspection 
which  so  much  moves  Anael  that  she  cries  at  last 
*'  Hakim  !  "  and  dies,  leaving  him  to  the  people  who 
are  again  convinced  of  his  divinity  and  recommence 
their  worship  of  him.     He  ends  by  killing  himself. 

Here  is  material  for  a  play  of  much  originality  and 
power ;  and  many  of  Mr.  Browning's  admirers  look 
upon  the  result  with  satisfaction.  Mr.  Symons  finds 
it  "superbly  passionate,  rapid,  vivid,  intense,  and 
picturesque  "  ;  in  the  Introduction  to  the  Camberwell 
Edition  it  is  declared  to  be  "  noticeable  for  the  com- 
pleteness with  which  it  incorporates  with  the  under- 
lying motive  revealed  through  personality,  the  more 
usual  stage  interests  of  telling  character-progression, 
and  of  mere  plot-surprising  situation  and  effective 
spectacle,"  and  Mr.  Sharpe  considers  it  the  most 
picturesque  of  all  the  plays. 

Undeniably  it  is  picturesque,  but  if  it  were  a  pict- 
ure it  might  fairly  be  criticised  for  showing  the  paint 
too  plainly.  It  brings  forcibly  to  mind  Lowell's 
description  of  what  he  calls  the  "  physically  intense 
school "  (citing  Aurora  Leigh  as  an  example).  Au- 
thors of  this  school  forget,  he  says,  "  that  convulsion 
is  not  energy,  and  that  words,  to  hold  fire,  must  first 
catch  it  from  vehement  heat  of  thought,  while  no 
artificial  fervours  of  phrase  can  make  the  charm  work 
backward  to  kindle  the  mind  of  writer  or  reader." 

It  is  only  necessary  to  make  "the  chronic  Shake- 


^be  Dramas.  57 

spearian  comparison  "  and  glance  from  The  Return  of 
the  Druses  to  Othello,  or  Hamlet,  or  Macbeth,  to 
realise  that  Djabal's  character  is  not  convincing  be- 
cause it  is  not  well  enough  thought  out.  Nor  does 
Anael  give  any  definite  and  certain  impression.  Mr. 
Symons  considers  her  cry  "  Hakim  !  "  a  "  divine  and 
adorable  self-sacrifice  of  truth,"  assuming  that  she 
acknowledges  Djabal's  divinity  against  her  own  be- 
lief in  order  to  save  him  from  the  wrath  of  the  Druses. 
The  editors  of  the  Camberwell  Edition  dispute  the 
point,  contending  that  'Mt  would  be  a  direct  contra- 
diction to  the  whole  tenor  of  the  stopless  course  of 
this  fiery,  strong-souled  Syrian  maiden  if  her  final 
word  was  a  knowing  lie." 

The  fact  seems  to  be  that  Browning  had  not 
gained  a  perfect  mastery  over  his  own  conception 
before  he  delivered  it  over  to  the  reader,  who  is 
obliged  to  make  good  the  imperfections  of  a  too 
hasty  method.  The  composition  of  the  play  in  five 
days,  an  act  to  a  day,  is  quoted  as  an  example  of 
Browning's  marvellous  rapidity  of  workmanship.  It 
is  an  even  better  example  of  his  reluctance  to 
shape  an  elaborate  work  of  art  surely  enough  to 
save  unwilling  labour  on  the  part  of  others. 

The  less  elaborate  and  ambitious  drama,  A  Blot 
in  the  'Scutcheon,  suffers  much  less  from  an  equally 
rapid  composition,  and  is  separable  from  all  the  other 
dramas  by  its  deeper  reading  of  human  nature  and  by 
the  unity  of  its  general  effect.  In  this  tragic  history 
of  two  misguided  children  we  have  a  style  so  ardent 


58  Brownlna. 

and  restrained,  a  type  of  love  so  simple  and  so 
passionate,  a  form  of  construction  so  admirably  pro- 
portioned, that  it  seems  the  one  play  to  reach  perfect 
fruition  in  Browning's  varied  group.  For  this  reason 
its  failure  to  answer  the  chief  requirements  of  a 
psychological  play  is  more  conspicuous.  The  lines  of 
the  plot  are  simple.  Mildred  Tresham  and  Henry 
Mertoun  have  loved  and  sinned,  and  their  attempt  at 
late  reparation  is  foiled  by  their  own  folly  and  awk- 
wardness, and  leads  to  the  death  of  both, — Mertoun 
falling  by  the  hand  of  Mildred's  brother,  and  Mildred 
sinking  under  a  weight  of  calamity  too  heavy  for  her 
strength. 

Mr.  Symons  finds  the  force  of  the  situation  in 
what  he  calls  "the  inevitable  nature  of  the  final 
tragedy,"  which  at  first  sight  seems  an  unnecessary 
refinement  of  pure  cruelty. 

"A  tragedy  resulting  from  the  mistakes  of  the 
wholly  innocent,"  he  says,  "would  jar  on  our 
sense  of  right,  and  could  never  produce  a  legitimate 
work  of  art.  Even  (Edipus  suffers  not  merely  be- 
cause he  is  under  the  curse  of  a  higher  power,  but 
because  he  is  wilful  and  rushes  upon  his  own  fate. 
Timon  suffers  not  because  he  was  generous  and  good, 
but  from  the  defects  of  his  qualities.  So  in  this  play 
each  of  the  characters  calls  down  upon  his  own  head 
the  suffering  which  at  first  seems  to  be  a  mere 
caprice  and  confusion  of  chance." 

If  there  had  been  more  of  this  "inevitable" 
element  in  the  tragedy  it  would  have  taken  a  higher 


^be  Bramas.  59 

place  among  dramas  of  character.  The  flaw  that 
cheapens  it  is  the  foolishness  of  the  trespass,  and  the 
total  lack  of  adequate  temptation.  There  was  noth- 
ing whatever  to  prevent  the  attainment  of  happiness 
by  Mertoun  and  Mildred  had  they  followed  the  path 
of  virtue,  in  this  case  the  broad  and  plain  path.  The 
play  deals  with  sin  and  the  punishment  of  sin,  but 
there  is  no  cognisance  taken  of  the  relations  between 
cause  and  effect.  The  situation  is  not  merely  ab- 
normal but  inexplicable.  The  sentiment  of  pity  is 
aroused,  but  it  is  pity  mingled  with  condescension. 
There  is  no  comprehending  sympathy  on  the  part  of 
the  observer ;  instinctive  recognition  of  fate's  decree 
in  the  miserable  plight  of  the  lovers.  They  have 
been  wilful,  certainly,  and  stupidly  wilful  at  that. 
Romeo  was  a  veritable  Solon  and  Juliet  an  Athene  by 
comparison.  Thus  we  lose  the  deeper  note  of  such 
psychological  dramas  as  Sudermann,  for  example,  is 
writing  at  the  present  day,  where  the  appeal  is  made 
not  merely  to  the  emotions,  but  to  the  intelligence, 
which  is  able  to  realise  the  war  between  natural 
forces  and  imposed  environment,  and  where  a  certain 
strenuous  logic  is  constantly  employed. 

If  we  grant,  however,  the  extremely  unsatisfac- 
tory framework,  we  find  the  rest  convincing  and 
moving. 

In  Mildred's  character  Browning  has  escaped  his 
usual  pitfall  of  fitting  too  mature  and  complicated 
emotions  to  the  delicate  framework  of  an  adolescent 
nature.     In  spite  of  the  gravity  of  her  acts  Mildred's 


6o  3Brownlna» 

immaturity  is  apparent  in  the  crude  fabric  of  her 
speech.  She  has  no  explanation,  no  excuses  to  offer 
when  her  brother  charges  her  with  guilt.  She 
blunders  fatally  in  trying  to  shield  Mertoun,  and 
perceives  no  way  to  mend  her  blunder.  She  stands 
like  childhood  incarnate  reiterating  her  pathetic  and 
forlorn  complaint : 

I  was  so  young,  I  loved  him  so,  I  had 
No  mother,  God  forgot  me,  and  I  fell. 

Not  until  the  final  scene  of  catastrophe  does  she 
lose  her  frightened  simplicity  and  show  a  mental 
grasp  too  nearly  adequate  for  her  girlish  intelligence. 
Colombe's  Birthday  is  less  dramatic  than  A  Blot 
in  the  'Scutcheon,  but  it  bears  adequate  testimony  to 
Browning's  increasing  facility  in  realism.  The  young 
and  gracious  Duchess  of  Cleves  has  a  charm  of  variety 
and  brightness  naturally  wanting  in  Mildred's  charac- 
ter overshadowed  by  doom  and  the  consciousness  of 
sin.  When  Miss  Alma  Murray  interpreted  the  part, 
at  the  representation  given  by  the  Browning  Society 
in  1885,  the  notices  in  the  press  were  cordially 
favourable,  and  the  general  impression  prevailed  that 
competent  acting  brought  to  light  unsuspected  quali- 
ties of  dramatic  value.  Browning's  interest  in  the 
''boards"  was  waning,  however.  "That  Liiria 
shall  be  my  last  play,"  he  wrote  to  Miss  Barrett  after 
she  had  expressed  her  wonder  that  he  could  bear  to 
trust  his  noble  works  to  be  ''ground  to  pieces 
between  the  teeth  of  vulgar  actors  and  actresses." 


Z\)c  Dramas*  6i 

His  last  play  it  practically  was,  if  we  overlook  the 
fragmentary  In  a  Balcony,  and  A  Soul's  Tragedy, 
which  is  inconceivable  as  an  affair  for  the  stage.  In 
certain  respects  it  is  also  his  best  play,  although  it 
lacks  the  singleness  and  directness  of  impression  that 
marks  A  Blot  in  the  'Scutcheon,  and  has  no  character 
comparable  in  simplicity  to  Mildred. 

Luria  is  a  Moor  "from  Othello's  country,"  and  it 
is  possible  that  Browning's  conception  of  him  was  in- 
fluenced by  the  thought  of  Othello.  He  is  at  all 
events  the  same  ''free  and  open  nature  that  thinks 
men  honest  when  they  seem  to  be  so,"  and  one  to 
whom  ''  the  flinty  and  steel  couch  of  war  "  was  his 
'*  thrice  driven  bed  of  down."  Not  a  Moor  of  Venice 
but  of  Florence,  he  is  a  Mercenary  fighting  against 
Lucca,  Pisa,  and  Siena.  While  he  gains  the  victory 
his  enemies  of  the  seigniory  are  manufacturing 
evidence  and  weaving  toils  about  him  that  he  may 
be  condemned  for  treason  in  the  hour  of  triumph, — 
this  from  diplomatic  distrust  of  an  alien  who  may  put 
power  and  popularity  to  dangerous  uses.  At  the 
critical  moment  Luria  discovers  the  treachery  and  the 
means  of  revenge.  The  Pisan  general  urges  him  to 
desert  the  Florence  by  which  he  has  been  betrayed, 
for  the  generalship  of  the  enemy's  forces  which  he 
offers  to  resign  to  him.  His  fidelity  to  his  adopted 
city  is  not,  however,  to  be  transferred.  His  soliloquy 
upon  the  situation  hints  also  at  the  danger  to 
Florence  if  he  should  passively  await  the  result  of 
her  action  against  him. 


62  35rowning. 

What  then  ? 
I  ruin  Florence,  teach  her  friends  mistrust, 
Confirm  her  enemies  in  harsh  belief, 
And  when  she  finds  one  day,  as  find  she  must, 
The  strange  mistake  and  how  my  heart  was  hers. 
Shall  it  console  me,  that  my  Florentines 
Walk  with  a  sadder  step,  in  graver  guise, 
Who  took  me  with  such  frankness,  praised  me  so, 
At  the  glad  outset  ? 

This  point  has  been  missed,  apparently,  by  the 
most  of  Browning's  commentators,  yet  the  climax  of 
the  tragedy,  Luria's  suicide,  is  not  adequately  ex- 
plained without  it.  It  is  the  final  consecration  of 
character,  and  turns  an  act  of  almost  cowardly  de- 
spair into  a  sacrifice  to  the  Very  God  of  loyalty.  Lu- 
ria  dies  not  merely  from  grief  and  disappointment, 
but  because  he  cannot  in  any  other  way  prevent  the 
debasement  of  his  city.  If  he  lives  she  will  add  to 
her  history  the  record  of  a  deed  of  inconceivable  in- 
gratitude. If  he  dies,  the  danger  is  averted,  and  her 
enemies  will  never  be  able  to  accuse  her.^ 

The  gravity  and  dignity  of  Liiria  make  up  for 
many  minor  defects.  It  is  hardly  a  stage  play  ;  the 
monologues  are  long  and  involved,  the  action  is 
scanty  and  slow,  and  there  is  no  strong  centre  of  in- 
terest outside  the  decision  of  Luria's  problem,  but 
the  sustained  nobility  and  frankness  of  the  Moor 
against  the  crafty  background  of  Italian  diplomacy  is 
impressive,  and  the  general  grasp  of  the  varied  ele- 

'  No  perspicacity  is  required  to  interpret  this  part  of  Luria  since  the  publication 
of  the  letters  to  Miss  Barrett,  as  Browning  himself  explains  it  fully.  See  vol.  ii.,  page 
424. 


TTbe  Bramaa. 


63 


ments,  national  and  individual,  is  much  stronger 
than  in  any  previous  play  of  equal  complexity. 

It  is  interesting  to  learn  from  the  letters  to  Miss 
Barrett  that  Browning  meant  at  first  to  make  the  part 
of  the  quasi-heroine — Domizia — one  of  greater  im- 
portance. Among  his  memoranda  for  the  fifth  act 
was  this  note  "she  loves,"  but  by  his  own  con- 
fession he  "  could  not  bring  it."  She  does  not  love, 
and  his  Othello  is  obliged  to  hold  the  audience  with- 
out the  aid  of  a  Desdemona. 

When  Luria  was  published  in  the  last  number  of 
Bells  and  Pomegranates  Br.owning  felt  that  he  was 
through  for  the  time  with  dramatic  writing  in  the 
technical  sense.  "  Let  all  that  1  have  done,"  he 
wrote  to  Miss  Barrett,  "  be  the  prelude,  and  the  real 
work  begin." 


CHAPTER  IV. 
ELIZABETH   BARRETT. 

UNTIL  1897,  when  Mr.  Kenyon  edited  her  let- 
ters with  biographical  editions,  no  accurate 
impression  had  been  given  of  Elizabeth  Bar- 
rett Browning.  Confusion  existed  concerning  even 
the  date  and  place  of  her  birth,  few  details  of  her  life 
were  accessible,  and  an  extravagant  conception  of  a 
woman  at  once  romantic  and  pedantic  prevailed.  This 
was  due  in  part  to  the  invalid  life  she  had  led,  and  in 
part  to  her  great  dislike  of  talking  about  her  own 
affairs  even  with  her  intimate  friends.  Browning,  in 
a  letter  to  Dr.  Furnivall  (obviously  replying  to  a 
request  for  biographical  information),  declares  : 

"The  personality  of  my  wife  was  so  strong  and 
peculiar  that  1  had  no  curiosity  to  go  beyond  it,  and 
concern  myself  with  matters  which  she  was  evidently 
disinclined  to  communicate.  I  believe  I  discovered 
her  birthday — the  day,  not  the  date — three  weeks 
ago  when  engaged  in  some  search  after  missing 
letters." 

The  circumstances  of  her  marriage,  the  apparently 
64 


Elizabeth  Barrett  Brotvning. 

From  a  painting  in  the  National  Portrait 
Gallery,  London. 


leilsabetb  Barrett  65 

romantic  secrecy  of  her  flight  from  home  to  become 
Browning's  wife,  added  colour  to  the  sentimental 
and  somewhat  sensational  accounts  of  her  that  got 
abroad ;  but  now  that  Mr.  Kenyon's  book  and  the 
recently  published  love-letters  are  accessible,  it  is 
comparatively  easy  to  piece  together  the  plain  story 
of  a  singularly  interesting  lite. 

Elizabeth  Barrett  Barrett  was  born  at  Coxhoe 
Hall,  about  five  miles  south  of  the  city  of  Durham,  on 
the  6th  of  March,  1806.  Her  father's  name  was 
originally  Edward  Barrett  Moulton,  the  supplement- 
ary Barrett  being  added  on  the  death  of  his  maternal 
grandfather  to  whose  Jamaica  estates  he  fell  heir. 
The  full  name— Elizabeth  Barrett  Moulton-Barrett — 
was  so  long  that,  "to  make  it  portable,"  its  owner 
"fell  into  the  habit  of  doubling  it  up  and  packing  it 
closely." 

Her  brothers  sometimes  reproached  her  for  "  sac- 
rificing the  governorship  of  an  old  town  in  Norfolk 
with  a  little  honourable  verdigris  from  the  Herald's 
Office  "  ;  but  she  seems  to  have  had  little  ancestor- 
worship  in  her  composition.  "  As  if  I  cared  for  the 
Retrospective  Review,"  she  says,  and  adds  the 
curious  statement : 

"Nevertheless  it  is  true  that  I  would  give  ten 
towns  in  Norfolk  (if  I  had  them)  to  own  some  purer 
lineage  than  that  of  the  blood  of  the  slave.  Cursed 
we  are  from  generation  to  generation  ! — I  seem  to 
hear  the  Commination  Service." 

This  reference  to  "the  blood  of  the  slave  "  in  her 


66  Brownina. 

lineage,  taken  by  itself,  might  prove  misleading  to 
the  zealous  biographer.  Mr.  Kenyon  comments  on 
the  "curious  coincidence"  that  she,  like  Robert 
Browning,  was  in  part  of  West  Indian  descent,  and 
the  framing  of  her  sentence  suggests  the  dark-blood 
theory  in  her  own  case,  advanced  by  Dr.  Furnivall  in 
connection  with  Browning.  Considering  the  peculiar 
Barrett-Browning  facility  for  tortuous  constructions, 
however,  it  is  reasonable  to  suppose  that  she  means 
the  "blood  of  the  slave/'  not  in  the  veins  but  on  the 
head  of  her  ancestors,  as  her  great-great-grandfather 
and  great-grandfather  owned  slaves  in  Jamaica,  where 
the  latter  had  an  income  of  fifty  thousand  a  year 
and  "wore  patches  at  his  knees  and  elbows  upon 
principle." 

In  a  letter  to  Mr.  Ruskin  she  practically  explains 
her  confusing  allusion  : 

"  I  belong  to  a  family  of  West  hidian  slave- 
holders," she  says,  "and  if  I  believed  in  curses  I 
should  be  afraid.  1  can  at  least  thank  God  that  I  am 
not  an  American.  How  you  look  serenely  at  slavery 
I  cannot  understand,  and  I  distrust  your  power  to 
explain." 

Mr.  Barrett— Elizabeth's  father — had  eleven  child- 
ren, three  daughters  and  eight  sons,  and  held 
toward  them  much  the  position  of  the  Father  of 
Russia  toward  his  faithful  people.  All,  save  Eliza- 
beth, were  financially  dependent  upon  him,  and  all, 
including  Elizabeth,  were  absolutely  subject  to  his 
remarkable  will. 


leiisabetb  Barrett.  67 

That  she  commonly  spoke  of  him  as  another 
daughter  might  speak  of  a  parent  not  merely  be- 
loved but  extremely  indulgent,  is  strong  evidence  of 
her  capacity  for  generously  bestowing  affection,  and 
evidence  also,  it  is  fair  to  assume,  of  the  presence  of 
some  endearing  traits  in  his  character  not  in  the  least 
apparent  to  the  ordinary  observer. 

Her  early  letters  after  the  death  of  her  mother 
refer  to  him  with  tender  admiration,  and  in  the  later 
letters  we  now  and  again  come  upon  unimportant 
but  not  wholly  insignificant  details  that  point  to- 
wards a  certain  degree  of  kindness  and  affection  on  his 
part :  an  account  of  an  episode  connected  with  the 
departure  of  the  family  from  Sidmouth  when  one 
of  his  little  sons  unhesitatingly  preferred  remaining 
with  him  to  joining  the  other  children  ;  reference  to 
regular  evening  visits  to  his  daughter's  room  ;  men- 
tion of  his  bringing  flowers  to  her  from  the  city ; 
and  various  proofs  of  his  interest  in  her  work  shown 
as  early  as  the  first  publication  of  The  Battle  of 
Marathon  (written  when  she  was  eleven  or  twelve 
years  old),  fifty  copies  of  which  he  had  printed,  and 
which  was  dedicated  *'to  the  Father  whose  never- 
failing  kindness,  whose  unwearied  affection,  I  never 
can  repay." 

When  most  wounded  by  the  failure  of  that  much 
appreciated  ''kindness,"  his  daughter  insisted  upon 
ascribing  the  fault  to  the  ''system"  by  which  he 
ordered  his  relation  to  his  family  and  not  to  coldness 
of  heart.      Certainly   the   system  was  sufficiently 


68  Browning. 

peculiar,  involving  an  assumption  on  his  part  of 
the  divine  right  to  rule  ;  and  the  results  of  its  logical 
application  were  disastrous  to  anything  like  peace  of 
mind  for  his  children.  It  seems  to  have  been  an 
idee  fixe  w^ith  him  that  none  of  his  children  should 
marry,  and  this  repugnance  amounted  to  mania. 
This  accounts  for  the  otherwise  inexplicable  secrecy 
in  which  Miss  Barrett's  engagement  to  Browning 
was  kept  during  the  entire  term  of  its  duration.  In 
a  letter  justifying  her  caution  she  gives  a  remarkable 
description  of  the  scene  that  took  place  when  one 
of  her  sisters  asked  her  father's  consent  to  her  own 
engagement,  yielding  at  once  when  that  consent  was 
refused,  but  not  unnaturally  showing  some  traces  of 
feeling.  ^'  I  hear  how  her  knees  were  made  to  ring 
upon  the  floor,  now ! "  Miss  Barrett  wrote,  adding 
that  the  girl  was  carried  out  of  the  room  in  strong 
hysterics,  while  she  herself,  though  not  at  the  time 
in  ill-health,  fell  down  in  a  fainting-fit  from  terrified 
sympathy.  It  is  not  surprising  that  under  these 
circumstances  anything  like  confidence  between 
father  and  daughter  on  this  one  subject  should  have 
been  judged  impossible. 

What  is  surprising  is  the  fact  that  the  family  man- 
aged to  hold  together  long  after  they  were  of  an  age 
to  disperse  and  seek  their  own  satisfactions.  Putting 
aside  the  financial  obstacle  which  cannot  be  consid- 
ered absolute  in  the  case  of  grown  men  and  women, 
it  must  be  inferred  that  in  spite  of  Mr.  Barrett's  vio- 
lent temper  and  forms  of  eccentricity  approaching 


jeusabetb  Barrett.  69 

insanity,  he  possessed  enough  generosity  of  disposi- 
tion to  make  his  home  more  than  endurable  when 
his  will  was  permitted  to  be  the  pivot  upon  which 
family  arrangements  turned.  That  he  possessed  a 
single  trace  of  the  kind  of  unselfishness  that  involves 
the  sacrifice  of  personal  preferences,  it  is  difficult  to 
assume  in  the  face  of  the  facts  given  in  Miss  Barrett's 
letters.  She  herself,  for  example,  once  gathered  her 
courage,  at  a  time  when  she  was  ''  in  high  favour," 
to  ask  that  her  cousin,  Mr.  Kenyon,  should  be  in- 
vited to  dinner.    The  request  was  refused. 

Friends  who  looked  on  from  without  felt  a  high 
degree  of  indignation  at  the  "tyranny  "  of  the  house- 
hold management,  and  nothing  is  more  indicative  of 
Browning's  true  gentleness  of  disposition  and  con- 
sideration for  others  than  his  self-restraint  on  a 
subject  that  must  sorely  have  tried  his  strength  in 
that  direction.  Only  once  in  the  course  of  his  corre- 
spondence with  Miss  Barrett  does  he  give  expression 
to  his  deep  resentment,  and  it  is  curious  to  note  how 
on  that  occasion  his  tortured  phraseology  gives  way 
to  directness  and  point  in  vigorous  anathema. 

Of  Mrs.  Barrett  little  is  known.  On  a  window 
that  was  once  a  part  of  Kelloe  Church  was  found  an 
inscription  scratched  with  a  diamond  : 

Charming  Mrs.  Barrett, 

Coxhoe  beauty, 
which  probably  refers  to  her.     Her   daughter   de- 
scribes her  as  "  one  of  those  women  who  never  can 
resist,  but  in  submitting  and  bowing  on  themselves, 


70  :Brownino. 

make  a  mark,  a  plait,  within — a  sign  of  suffering," 
and  declares  that  her  only  fault  lay  in  being  "too 
womanly."  Apparently  all  her  children  inherited 
something  of  her  faculty  for  submission,  Elizabeth, 
the  weakest  in  body,  being  the  first  who  was  suc- 
cessful in  opposition  to  the  one  authority. 

Elizabeth  Barrett's  childhood  as  well  as  the  larger 
part  of  her  youth  was  spent  at  her  father's  estate  of 
Hope  End  in  Herefordshire,  a  few  miles  from  Mal- 
vern. In  a  letter  to  Mr.  Home  she  speaks  of  it  as  a 
retirement  scarcely  broken  except  by  books  and  her 
own  thoughts. 

"There  I  had  my  fits  of  Pope  and  Byron  and 
Coleridge,"  she  says,  "and  read  Greek  as  hard  under 
the  trees  as  some  of  your  Oxonians  in  the  Bodleian  ; 
gathered  visions  from  Plato  and  the  dramatists,  and 
ate  and  drank  Greek  and  made  my  head  ache  with  it." 

The  poem  called  The  Lost  Bower  is  a  pre-Raphael- 
ite  picture  of  the  Malvern  region,  the  scene  of  Piers 
Plowman's  visions: 

Dimpled  close  with  hill  and  valley, 

Dappled  very  close  with  shade  ; 

Summer-snow  of  apple-blossoms  running  up  from  glade  to  glade. 

Like  Browning  and  Tennyson  she  chose  a  wood 
for  her  favourite  walk,  pushing  through  thickets 
where  the  sheep  had  tried  to  run  and  from  which, 
with  "  silly  thorn-pricked  noses,"  they  had  "  bleated 
back  into  the  sun. "  Out  in  the  sunshine  and  country 
air  she  seems  to  have  played  with  her  classic  heroes 
much  as  children  of  more  ordinary  type  play  with 


leiisabetb  Barrett  71 

their  dolls.  The  thought  of  (Edipus  was  mingled 
with  the  memory  of  the  Lost  Bower,  and  valorous 
Hector  served  her  fancy  as  a  garden-bed  : 

Call  him  Hector,  son  of  Priam, 
Such  his  title  and  degree. 
With  my  rake  I  smoothed  his  brow, 
Both  his  cheeks  I  weeded  through, 
But  a  rhymer  such  as  I  am. 
Scarce  can  sing  his  dignity. 

M^rimee  advised  his  ''  Inconnue"  to  learn  Greek 
that  she  might  enjoy  the  tragedians  ;  but  Browning's 
bien-connue  marched  abreast  with  him.  When  he 
was  playing  at  Homer's  story  with  his  cat  and  pony, 
she  was  planting  Hector's  sword  of  lilies  and  ''  brazen 
helm  of  daffodillies";  when  he  was  "measuring  out 
heroic  couplets  with  his  hand  round  the  dining-table 
in  Camberwell,"  she  was  writing  an  *'epic"  and 
burning  sacrifices  to  Minerva  who  was  her  favourite 
goddess  ''  because  she  cared  for  Athens." 

Her  knowledge  of  Greek  was  gained  through 
sharing  her  brother  Edward's  work  under  his  tutor, 
and  was  fostered  by  her  intercourse  with  the  blind 
scholar,  Hugh  Boyd,  who  was  not,  however,  her 
teacher  in  the  usual  sense  of  the  word,  but  a  valued 
critic  of  her  verse  who  consistently  found  fault  with 
her  metres  and  exhorted  her  to  follow  Pope.  Her 
letters  to  this  friend,  whose  inclination  was  to  chasten 
whom  he  loved,  are  written  in  a  charming  spirit  of 
deference  and  confidence,  and  to  Browning  she 
describes  him  as  ''one  of  the  men  born  shepherds," 
talking  ''such  pure  childishness  sometimes  in  such 


72  Brownina. 

pure  Attic."  She  thought  that  he  cared  for  her  more 
perhaps  than  for  anyone  else  ;  but  if  he  should  hear 
of  her  death  would  merely  sleep  a  little  sounder  the 
next  night,  it  being  his  tendency  to  go  to  sleep  when 
he  felt  sorry  about  anything.  Up  to  the  time  of  her 
acquaintance  with  Browning  Mr.  Boyd  was  obviously 
her  most  inspiriting  correspondent,  and  although 
none  of  his  letters  have  been  published,  their  truth- 
telling  quality  and  the  entire  absence  of  anything 
like  incense-burning  may  easily  be  gathered  from 
her  replies. 

When  she  was  twenty-seven  years  old  she  gave  an 
injudicious  proof  of  her  interest  in  Greek  subjects  by 
"undoing," to  use  her  own  phrase,  the  Prometheus 
of /Eschylus  into  English.  The  book  was  published 
anonymously,  but  five  years  later,  when  The  Seraphim 
and  Other  Poems  came  out,  she  acknowledged  her 
authorship  of  the  translation.  In  Nicoll  and  Wise's 
Literary  Anecdotes,  the  statement  of  this  fact  is  sup- 
plemented by  the  remark:  *'  How  soon  'wrath  got 
hold  upon  her  soul '  for  the  sake  of  y^schylus  and 
what  he  suffered  at  her  hands — bibliography  does  not 
reveal.  Certainly  we  hear  no  more  of  the  translation 
in  her  collection  of  1844,  and  between  the  issue  of 
that  very  treasurable  book  of  1838,  The  Seraphim 
.  .  .  ,  and  the  still  more  treasurable  Poems  of 
1844,  she  had  probably  repented,  in  sackcloth  and 
ashes,  of  the  scant  justice  done  to  /Eschylus  in  her 
early  womanhood." 

That  this  picture  of  repentance  is  not  overdrawn 


jeii3abetb  Barrett.  73 

appears  from  her  letters  of  1845,  in  which  she  declares 
that  the  sin  of  her  translation  is  her  nightmare  and 
daymare  too,  and  the  blot  on  her  'scutcheon.  It  was 
"written  in  twelve  days,  and  ought  to  have  been 
thrown  into  the  fire  afterwards — the  only  means  of 
giving  it  a  little  warmth."  Later  she  published 
another  and  altogether  different  translation. 

In  spite  of  her  precocity  as  a  child,  and  the  early 
inclination  of  her  mind  toward  poetry,  her  gift  devel- 
oped slowly.  Her  letters  written  between  twenty 
and  thirty  are  childishly  expressed  and  show  little 
originality  of  thought.  An  affectionate,  gentle  nature 
fed  chiefly  upon  books  is  all  that  they  reveal ;  and 
her  early  work  seems  hardly  more  characteristic.  Of 
the  graceful  touch  and  clever  merry  expressions  that 
abound  in  her  later  correspondence,  and  of  the  posi- 
tive and  individual  opinions  for  which  her  poetry 
presently  became  the  vehicle,  we  see  nothing  until 
she  is  in  her  full  maturity. 

The  ill-health  from  which  she  suffered  commenced 
as  early  as  her  fifteenth  year  when  in  trying  to  saddle 
her  pony  she  fell  and  received  an  injury  to  the  spine. 
Apparently,  however,  the  illness  caused  by  this  was 
but  temporary,  her  permanent  invalidism  resulting 
from  the  breaking  of  a  blood-vessel  in  1838. 

On  account  of  her  serious  condition  from  this  cause 
she  was  sent  to  Torquay  in  the  company  of  her  eldest 
brother,  Edward,  with  whom  she  had  studied  and 
who  was  more  in  sympathy  with  her  tastes  and  tem- 
perament than  any  other  member  of  the  family.     At 


74  Browning. 

Torquay  he  was  drowned,  and  the  shock  combined 
with  her  grief  for  his  loss  to  prostrate  her  utterly. 

Not  until  1 84 1  did  she  recover  enough  strength  of 
body  and  mind  to  return  to  London  where  the  family 
were  then  living,  and  to  the  work  into  which  she 
henceforth  threw  herself  as  a  refuge  from  overwhelm- 
ing recollections. 

She  was  already  known  to  a  considerable  public 
through  the  duodecimo  volume  entitled  The  Seraphim 
and  Other  Poems  which  made  its  appearance  at  the 
end  of  May,  1838, — one  year  later  than  the  perform- 
ance oi  Strafford  at  the  Covent  Garden  Theatre. 

The  criticisms  in  the  Athenmim,  the  Examiner, 
the  Atlas,  and  (after  two  years)  the  Qjiarterly  Review 
paid  her  the  tribute  of  careful  consideration  of  her 
defects,  and  cordial  acknowledgment  other  finer  qual- 
ities. Her  ambitious  attempts  upon  subjects  demand- 
ing exceptional  power  and  restraint,  and  her  numerous 
mannerisms,  marked  her  for  serious  fault-finding;  but 
her  sincerity  and  genuine  imagination  made  their 
appeal. 

In  1 844  the  two  volumes  of  Poems  appeared.  These 
contained,  besides  the  minor  poems,  A  Drama  of 
Exile,  and  Lady  Geraldine's  Courtship ;  the  former  a 
Miltonic  subject  with  Adam  and  Eve  for  hero  and 
heroine,  done  in  blank  verse;  the  latter,  a  "ballad 
poem"  finished  in  haste  (140  lines  in  one  day)  to 
piece  out  the  first  volume,  which  was  discovered  at 
the  last  moment  to  be  disproportionately  short.  This 
"masterpiece  of  rhetorical  sentimentality,"  to  adopt 


Robert  Browning. 

From  life. 


jeiisabetb  Barrett.  75 

Mr.  Kenyon's  designation  of  it,  was  altogether  the 
favourite  with  the  critics  and  was  selected  for  special 
praise  by  Carlyle  and  Miss  Martineaii.  The  two  vol- 
umes ''won  her  the  position  which  for  the  rest  of  her 
life  she  held  in  popular  estimation  among  the  leaders 
of  English  poetry,"  and  were  reviewed  at  length  in 
the  various  papers  and  magazines.  ''Only  two  criti- 
cisms rankled,"  Mr.  Kenyon  says  :  "the one  that  she 
was  a  follower  of  Tennyson,  the  other  that  her 
rhymes  were  slovenly  and  careless."  The  first  criti- 
cism is  not  a  very  intelligent  one,  but  the  second  is 
more  plausible.  The  author  earnestly  repudiated, 
however,  the  charge  of  carelessness,  and  declared 
that  conviction  was  the  source  of  her  curious  rhyming. 
"  1  have  a  theory  about  double  rhymes,"  she  writes 
to  Mr.  Boyd,  "for  which  I  shall  be  attacked  by  the 
critics,  but  which  I  could  justify  perhaps  on  high 
authority,  or  at  least  analogy.  In  fact  these  volumes 
of  mine  have  more  double  rhymes  than  any  two 
books  of  English  poems  that  ever  to  my  knowledge 
were  printed;  1  mean  of  English  poems  not  comic. 
Now  of  double  rhymes  in  use,  which  are  perfect 
rhymes,  you  are  aware  how  few  there  are,  and  yet 
you  are  also  aware  of  what  an  admirable  effect  in 
making  a  rhythm  various  and  vigorous,  double  rhym- 
ing is  in  English  poetry.  Therefore,  1  have  used  a 
certain  licence;  and  after  much  thoughtful  study  of 
the  Elizabethan  writers  have  ventured  it  with  the 
public.  And  do  you  tell  me,  you  who  object  to  the 
use  of  a  different  vowel  in  a  double  rhyme,  why  you 


76  Browning. 

rhyme  (as  everybody  does  without  blame  from  any- 
body) '  given  '  to  'heaven,'  when  you  object  to  my 
rhyming  '  remember '  and  '  chamber '  ?  The  analogy 
surely  is  all  on  my  side,  and  1  believe  that  the  spirit 
of  the  English  language  is  also." 

This  spirited  defence  is  interesting  not  because  it 
justifies  the  result  of  the  experiment,  but  as  an 
explanation  of  it.  Mr.  Kenyon  attributes  her  fond- 
ness for  dissyllabic  rhymes  partly  to  her  acquaintance 
with  Italian  literature,  and  her  use  of  assonances  to 
the  paucity  of  pure  rhymes  of  the  dissyllabic  kind  in 
the  English  language. 

" Now  it  may  be,"  he  says,  ''that  a  writer  with  a 
very  sensitive  ear  would  not  have  attempted  such  an 
experiment,  and  it  is  a  fact  that  public  taste  has  not 
approved  it,  but  the  experiment  itself  is  as  legitimate 
as,  say,  the  metrical  experiments  in  hexameters  and 
hendecasyllabics  of  Longfellow  or  Tennyson,  and 
whether  approved  or  not  it  should  be  criticised  as  an 
experiment,  not  as  mere  carelessness." 

The  critic  who  reviewed  her  poems  in  Blackwood 
hit  upon  the  fatal  weakness  of  these  experiments  in 
his  discussion  of  her  habit  of  employing  certain 
adjectives  in  a  substantive  sense,  as  when  she  writes  : 
"  Leaning  from  my  human/'  or  "Chanting  down  the 
Golden." 

"It  is  true,"  he  says,  "that  this  practice  may 
be  defended  to  a  certain  extent  by  the  example  and 
authority  of  Milton.  But  Miss  Barrett  is  mistaken  if 
she  supposes  that  her  frequent  and  prominent  use  of 


leilsabctb  Barrett  n 

such  a  form  of  speech  can  be  justified  by  the  rare  and 
unobtrusive  instances  of  it  which  are  to  be  found 
in  the  Paradise  Lost.  To  use  an  anomalous  ex- 
pression two  or  three  times  in  a  poem  consisting  of 
many  thousand  lines,  is  a  very  different  thing  from 
bringing  the  same  anomaly  conspicuously  forward, 
and  employing  it  as  a  common  and  favourite  mode  of 
speech  in  a  number  of  small  poems.  In  the  former 
case,  it  will  be  found  that  the  expression  is  vindicated 
by  the  context,  and  by  the  circumstances  under 
which  it  is  employed  ;  in  the  latter  case,  it  becomes  a 
ffiuisance  which  cannot  be  too  rigorously  put  down." 

The  same  principle  applies  to  her  dissyllabic 
rhymes,  and  her  indulgence  in  compound  words. 
Intellectual  fastidiousness  would  certainly  have 
guarded  her  from  such  immoderate^  use  of  them  as 
constituted  mannerism. 

In  his  concluding  paragraph  the  Blackwood's  re- 
viewer counselled  her  to  write  "simply  from  her 
own  heart,  and  without  thinking  of  the  compositions 
of  any  other  author "  except  so  far  as  she  is  sure 
"that  they  embody  great  thoughts  in  pure  and 
appropriate  language,  and  in  forms  of  construction 
■which  will  endure  the  most  rigid  scrutiny  of  common 
sense  and  unperverted  taste." 

When,  later,  she  met  this  demand,  as  in  the  Son- 
nets from  the  Portuguese,  her  poetry  touched  its  high- 
water  mark  and  became  worthy  of  inclusion  in  the 
art  that  is  made  out  of  life,  the  only  art  that  has 
power  to  move  the  heart  or  to  exalt  the  mind. 


78  Browning. 

The  fact  that  the  crudities  of  her  style,  the  infelici- 
ties with  which  she  continually  cheapened  her  truly 
exceptional  gift  of  unpremeditated  song,  did  not  in 
any  case  entirely  obscure  the  sincerity  and  purity  of 
her  inspiration,  is  suggested  by  the  view  taken  other 
in  French  criticism.  M.  Taine  finds  in  her  work  the 
revelation  of  a  "  generous,  heroic,  impassioned  soul/' 
altogether  modern  "  by  its  education,  by  its  pride,  by 
its  daring,  by  the  constant  agitation  of  its  tense 
susceptibilities." 

M.  Joseph  Texte  is  quick  to  observe  in  her  y^u- 
rora  Leigh  an  impression  of  modernity  so  persisting 
that  after  forty  years  the  poem  still  seems  as  though 
written  yesterday,  and  adds  the  amazing  statement 
that  ''  among  foreign  poets  there  is  not  one  who  is 
nearer  to  us  [Frenchmen]  and  to  our  interests  than 
this  Elizabeth  Browning." 

The  most  important  experience  in  connection 
with  the  publication  of  the  1844  volumes  was  the 
letter  they  elicited  from  Browning.  Returning  from 
a  trip  to  Italy  a  few  months  after  their  appearance,  he 
expressed  his  admiration  of  the  poems  to  his  friend, 
John  Kenyon,  who  urged  him  to  write  to  the  author. 
In  January,  1845,  he  therefore  sent  her  the  appre- 
ciative letter  which  threw  her  ''  into  ecstasies  "  as 
coming  from  the  ''  Browning  of  Paracelsus,  king 
of  the  mystics."  In  it  he  speaks  of  the  ''fresh 
strange  music,  the  affluent  language,  the  exquisite  pa- 
thos, and  true  new  brave  thought,"  and  declares  with 
startling  candour,  "\  do,  as  I  say,  love  these  books 


fiUsabetb  Barrett  79 

with  all  my  heart — and  I  love  you  too,"  a  declara- 
tion that  opens  abruptly  a  correspondence  predestined 
to  lead  to  the  marriage  of  the  two  poets.  There  was 
between  them  certainly  the  ''nameless  something 
that  puts  two  souls  in  unison,"  the  sympathetic  un- 
derstanding that  made  them,  in  spite  of  all  external 
differences,  feel  and  think  alike.  Their  letters  to 
each  other  are  very  different  from  other  love-letters 
that  have  been  made  public,  and  the  fact  of  their 
having  been  published  is  not  taken  so  frankly  as  a 
matter  of  course  in  the  English  world  as  undoubtedly 
it  would  have  been  in  France.  The  two  thick  vol- 
umes containing  them  are  marked  by  one  break 
only,  where  a  letter  that  must  have  been  a  model  of 
fervour  and  awkwardness  was  burned.  The  rest, 
mounting  well  up  into  the  hundreds,  have  been 
printed  without  omission  or  change  even  in  the 
matter  of  punctuation. 

In  his  prefatory  note  Mr.  Robert  Barrett  Browning 
explains  that  his  father  destroyed  all  his  correspond- 
ence except  these  letters,  of  which  he  said  :  "  There 
they  are,  do  with  them  as  you  please  when  I  am  dead 
and  gone  !  "  The  two  alternatives  seemed  to  be  to 
publish  them  or  to  destroy  them,  and  Mr.  Browning 
chose  the  former. 

If  we  could  get  rid  of  the  sense  of  contemporane- 
ousness, if  we  could  feel  ourselves  removed  by  one 
or  more  centuries  or  even  by  the  difference  of  an 
alien  country  from  these  two  supremely  English  and 
supremely  modern  lovers,  it  would  be  easier  to  con- 


8o  Browning. 

cede  that  the  sincerity  and  nobility  of  the  emotions 
expressed  and  the  singularly  characteristic  form  of 
the  expression  justify  the  letting  in  of  the  world  upon 
this  deep  privacy.  As  it  is,  the  sensitive  reader  can 
hardly  avoid  a  consciousness  of  eavesdropping,  as 
intimate  confidences,  made  under  the  stress  of  the 
most  absorbing  and  exclusive  emotion  that  we  know 
anything  about,  constantly  unfold  themselves. 

Miss  Barrett,  herself,  held  opinions  on  the  subject 
of  published  letters  that  should  make  the  path  of  the 
literary  executor  comparatively  plain.  Considering 
them  ''the  most  vital  part  of  biography,"  she  thought 
it  wrong  and  selfish  not  to  be  ready  to  say  that  "  if 
the  secrets  of  our  daily  lives  and  inner  souls  may  in- 
struct other  surviving  souls,  let  them  be  open  to  men 
hereafter  even  as  they  are  to  God  now." 

"  Dust  to  dust,  and  soul  secrets  to  humanity," 
she  says  ;  "  there  are  natural  heirs  to  all  these  things." 

The  letters,  in  spite  of  their  freedom  and  intensity, 
cannot  be  called  unconscious  revelations.  Both 
Browning  and  Miss  Barrett  were  intensely  self-con- 
scious, and  their  letters  would  not  have  been  natural 
had  they  not  contained  an  immense  amount  of  intel- 
ligent analysis  of  thoughts  and  feelings  which  the 
simpler  world  might  be  satisfied  to  accept  as  inex- 
plicable. One  is  tempted  at  times  to  think  of  the 
"  reasoning  romance  "  to  which  poor  Keats  so  much 
objected  in  the  letters  of  Rousseau.  His  own  "  little 
correspondence  "  with  Fanny  Brawne,  if  contrasted 
with  that  of  the  Brownings,  is  a  most  illuminating 


leusabetb  Barrett  8i 

example  of  the  extreme  possibilities  of  difference  be- 
tween the  love-letters  of  poets ;  and  a  superficial 
similarity  of  circumstance — the  invalid  life  for  the 
one  lover,  exuberant  vitality  for  the  other,  the  need 
of  books  for  one  and  the  need  of  men  and  women 
for  the  other — only  marks  more  clearly  the  true  dis- 
parity in  the  two  cases. 

Between  Browning  and  Miss  Barrett  an  essential 
likeness  of  mind  and  character  existed,  a  likeness 
which  has  been  ignored  by  those  who  find  it  remark- 
able that  Browning,  the  essence  of  sturdy  force  and 
energy,  should  choose  for  his  mate  an  invalid  older 
in  years  than  himself,  and  a  recluse.  Browning  was 
a  man  of  the  world,  though  not  perhaps  of  the  gayest 
world,  and  his  wife  was  taken  from  a  room  in  London 
whose  windows  did  not  look  upon  the  street,  and  in 
which  the  solitude  and  silence  were  so  complete  that 
sounds  such  as  her  little  dog's  breathing  and  the 
striking  of  ivy  leaves  on  the  window-pane  were 
notable. 

But  an  integral  sincerity,  an  affectionateness  at 
once  deep  and  demonstrative,  a  subjective  attitude 
toward  life,  an  untiring  loquacity  in  discussion,  were 
traits  common  to  both  and  thoroughly  developed  at 
the  time  when  they  began  assiduously  to  compare 
their  tastes,  opinions,  impressions,  and  beliefs. 

The  distinguishing  feature  of  their  correspondence 
is  the  steady  glow  of  the  feeling  into  which  their 
friendship  soon  ripened.  Both  were  ready  with  a 
quick  response  of  sympathy  to  any  form  of  kindness. 


82  Browning, 

and  this  responsiveness  frequently  found  utterance  in 
assurances  so  fervent  as  to  be  profoundly  mislead- 
ing; since  the  average  English  mind  is  accustomed  to 
distrust  prolixity  in  emotion. 

But  the  root  of  their  almost  oppressive  flower  of 
sentiment  was  sturdily  planted,  and  there  is  no  sign 
of  fluctuation  or  capriciousness  in  their  letters,  no 
petty  quarrel  or  evidence  of  ill-temper.  The  level 
is  so  high  that  the  ordinary  workaday  mood  needs 
to  be  keyed  up  to  meet  it.  The  natural  extrav- 
agance of  love  is  tempered  and  dignified  by  an 
extraordinary  unselfishness  and  purity.  Such  inter- 
vals of  doubt  and  jealousy  as  those  by  which  the 
morbid,  the  literally  dying  heart  of  Keats  was  tor- 
tured, are  totally  unknown  to  these  healthier-minded 
lovers. 

With  Miss  Barrett,  in  particular,  this  even  mood 
is  striking  since  one  of  the  symptoms  of  her  ill-health 
was  a  nervousness  so  intense  as  to  demand  opium 
for  its  remedy;  and  on  one  occasion  she  writes  of 
morphine  as  the  most  important  in  her  personal 
expenses.  Browning,  also,  despite  his  appearance  of 
lusty  health,  suffered  constantly  from  headache  and 
other  forms  of  nervous  excitability. 

Their  respect  for  themselves  and  for  each  other 
forbade,  however,  any  yielding  of  their  affection  to 
momentary  irritations.  It  would  not  be  difficult  to 
emphasise  the  impression  of  monotony  given  by  con- 
stant assurances  of  gratitude  and  humility.  Each  is 
continually  looking  up  to  the  other,  and  acknow- 


jEUsabetb  Barrett.  83 

ledging  "kindness "  and  '' considerateness "  and  phe- 
nomenal indulgence  and  generosity.  Fortunately  a 
real  cause  for  such  gentleness  existed  in  both  natures. 
They  were  not  better  in  their  protestations  than  in 
their  behaviour,  they  were  never  more  moralising 
than  moral,  and  the  idea  of  sacrificing  others  to  their 
own  happiness  was  deeply  repugnant  to  them. 

The  ballast  to  their  exaltation  of  soul  is  found  in  a 
strong  common  sense  underlying  the  "psychological 
passion"  characteristic  of  them  both;  and  Miss  Bar- 
rett was  certainly  the  clearer-headed  of  the  two. 
Throughout  the  courtship  she  had  been  slow  to 
admit  the  wisdom  of  Browning's  choice.  She  was 
deeply  touched  by  his  swift  "infatuation"  but  she 
was  never  flattered  by  it;  her  genuine  humility  in- 
structing her  to  believe  that  the  feeling  on  his  part 
was  an  unselfish  impulse  that  would  subside  and 
leave  them  friends  but  very  far  from  lovers,  and  this 
result  she  desired,  or  honestly  attempted  to  desire,  as 
happiest  and  most  advantageous  for  him.  She  saw 
in  herself  the  effects  of  long  illness  and  an  almost 
conventual  existence;  she  could  put  into  his  life,  she 
thought  and  said,  "  nothing  but  anxiety  and  more  sad- 
ness than  he  was  born  to,"  and  could  give  him  only 
what  would  be  ungenerous  to  give. 

When  finally,  realising  from  the  persistent  testi- 
mony of  a  passion  in  which  ardour  was  mingled  with 
chivalric  consideration  that  she  had  become  perman- 
ently necessary  to  his  life,  she  yielded,  the  proba- 
tion if  not  long  had  been  thorough. 


84  Browning. 

Four  months  after  his  first  letter  to  her,  Browning 
succeeded  in  getting  her  consent  to  penetrate  her  se- 
clusion and  talk  with  her  face  to  face  in  that  silent 
room  to  which  only  her  dog  Flush  seems  to  have  had 
free  access.  His  concern  at  the  tumult  made  by  his 
loud  voice  in  the  place  toned  down  to  her  fragile 
presence,  calls  up  a  picture  at  once  touching  and 
amusing  of  that  first  agitating  meeting,  followed  on 
his  part  by  the  letter  that  was  destroyed,  bringing 
them  perilously  near  such  a  condition  of  misunder- 
standing as  apparently  never  again  threatened  them. 

Then  followed  another  four  months  during  which 
the  letters  became  a  familiar  habit,  and  the  visits 
were  permitted  to  occur  thrice  a  fortnight,  greater 
frequency  than  this  being  deemed  unadvisable  as 
likely  to  arouse  Mr.  Barrett's  antagonism.  They 
struggled  valiantly  to  maintain  the  Platonic  ideal, 
drawing  steadily  away  from  it  as  their  knowledge  of 
each  other  increased.  Miss  Barrett  consistently  re- 
fused to  consent  to  an  engagement,  wishing  not  to 
burden  Browning  with  the  responsibilities  of  her 
invalid  life,  and  dreading  also  her  father's  certain 
opposition. 

In  the  autumn  of  1845,  however,  a  crisis  occurred 
to  change  her  judgment.  Her  doctors  advised  her  to 
go  abroad  for  the  winter,  considering  it  dangerous  for 
her  to  stay,  and  believing  that  a  permanent  improve- 
ment in  health  would  follow  her  escape  from  the 
English  climate  during  the  cold  weather. 

Strangely  enough    her   father's    perversity  was 


leiisabetb  Barrett  85 

roused  by  this  advice,  and  he  declined  to  sanction 
such  a  step,  declaring  that  if  she  went  it  must  be 
without  his  approval. 

It  is  impossible  to  conjecture  what  impulse 
prompted  him,  but  he  was  immovable  in  his  wholly 
unjustifiable  attitude.  His  daughter  felt  that  this 
indifference  to  her  health  indicated  a  lack  of  the 
affection  she  had  supposed  he  felt  for  her,  especially 
as  he  assumed  the  air  of  a  man  with  a  grievance, 
cutting  his  daily  visits  to  her  room  down  to  a  period 
of  a  few  moments,  and  maintaining  an  injured 
aspect. 

Deeply  wounded  and  quite  assured  of  the  un- 
changing quality  of  Browning's  attachment,  she  de- 
cided no  longer  to  let  her  scruples  stand  in  the  way 
of  what  was  obviously  his  happiness  and  certainly 
her  own.  She  agreed  that  if  she  could  hold  her  own 
in  health  during  the  English  winter  she  would  marry 
him  at  the  end  of  the  following  summer  and  leave 
England  for  Italy  with  him  before  the  cold  weather. 

The  practical  obstacle  was  still  Mr.  Barrett's  dis- 
position. To  ask  his  consent  would  be  not  merely 
useless  but  disastrous,  as  in  addition  to  refusing  the 
consent  he  undoubtedly  would  make  a  scene  ap- 
palling to  an  invalid  in  Miss  Barrett's  state  of  nervous 
and  physical  weakness.  The  only  alternative  was 
a  clandestine  marriage,  and  this  took  place  on  the 
twelfth  of  September,  1846.  No  one  was  taken  into 
confidence,  as  Miss  Barrett  felt  that  it  would  be  "  in- 
famous "  to  let  anyone  suffer  her  father's  displeasure 


86  Browning. 

as  a  direct  consequence  of  her  act.  Her  two  sisters 
knew  of  the  engagement,  but  not  of  the  final  event. 
Her  brothers  knew  nothing  beyond  their  conjectures. 

After  all  arrangements  were  completed, — with 
tremendous  energy  and  confusion  on  the  part  of 
Browning,  who  would  move  mountains  but  failed  at 
the  crucial  moment  to  make  a  clear  statement  of 
time-tables, — Miss  Barrett  slipped  quietly  out  of  the 
house,  accompanied  only  by  her  maid  Wilson,  and 
was  married  to  Robert  Browning  at  Marylebone 
Church  at  a  quarter  before  eleven. 

This  meeting  was  their  ninety-first,  a  fact  re- 
corded by  Browning  on  the  last  letter  he  received 
from  Elizabeth  Barrett  before  she  took  his  name. 

From  the  church  Mrs.  Browning  drove  to  Mr. 
Boyd's  house,  where  she  met  her  sisters,  who  were 
still  ignorant  of  what  had  happened.  She  then 
returned  to  her  home  for  the  week's  interval  before 
the  family  left  town.  During  that  week  Browning 
refrained  from  seeing  her,  not  wishing  to  ask  for  her 
by  her  maiden  name  and  not  daring  to  do  otherwise. 

On  September  19th  she  again  left  home  with 
Wilson  and  the  dog  Flush,  and  joining  her  husband 
set  out  for  Paris,  never  to  return  to  her  father's 
home.  She  had  predicted  that  her  father  would 
cast  her  off  and  be  angry  "  to  the  utmost,"  but  had 
ventured  to  hope  that  in  time  he  would  forgive  her. 
In  this  she  was  over-sanguine.  He  read  none  of  her 
letters  even  when  they  came  to  him  with  black 
borders,  and  he  had  no  way  of  knowing  that  she  was 


jeusabctb  Barrett  87 

not  widowed.  When  he  heard  of  the  birth  of  her 
child  he  refused  to  see  either  child  or  mother,  and 
''expressed  no  sympathy  or  anxiety."  Until  he  died 
this  attitude  was  maintained  without  a  trace  of  re- 
lenting on  his  part,  and  without  a  single  recorded 
word  of  anger  or  resentment  upon  hers.^ 

>  After  the  publication  of  the  Barrett-Browning  letters  the  two  following  com- 
munications were  sent  to  the  press  by  Mrs.  Browning's  brother,  Mr.  C.  J.  Moulton- 
Barrett  : 

Letter  to  the  London  Standard  from  Mrs.  Browning's  brother,  dated  Jacl<sontown, 

Jamaica,  March  30,  1899. 

"  In  spite  of  earnest  protests,  Mr.  Browning,  with  a  want  of  delicacy  hardly 
conceivable,  has  published  the  letters  of  his  father  and  mother  previous  to  their  mar- 
riage. The  careless  indifference  of  Mr.  Robert  Browning,  '  There  they  are,  do  with 
them  as  you  please  when  I  am  dead  and  gone,'  was  no  excuse  for  the  sacrilege.  His 
mother  would  have  been  horrified.     She  loved  her  father. 

"  The  notices  of  the  book  have  generally  been  so  cruelly  unjust  to  his  memory, 
I  consider  it  my  duty,  as  his  eldest  surviving  son,  to  relate  the  facts.  My  father 
acted  as  his  own  merchant  for  his  Jamaica  estates,  and  on  that  account  went  daily  to 
the  city.  He  never  met  Mr.  Browning.  He  was  aware  of  his  visits,  and  he  regarded 
them  like  the  visits  of  Miss  Mitford  and  Mr.  Kenyon,  as  affording  my  sister  pleasure. 
He  was  also  aware  of  Mr.  Browning's  intimacy  with  Mr.  Kenyon,  who  was  a  friend 
and  a  distant  relative. 

"  My  sister  had  been  an  invalid  for  years.  By  the  directions  of  Dr.  Chambers 
her  room  was  kept  at  a  certain  temperature,  and  she  never  left  it. 

"  Under  these  circumstances  my  father  lost  his  daughter.  He  had  loved  her 
from  her  childhood.  He  never  recovered  from  it.  I  venture  to  say  few  fathers 
would  take  the  hand  of  a  man  who  had  so  acted.  And  I  would  add,  few  sons,  either 
for  gain  or  love  of  notoriety,  would  make  public  the  confidential  letters  of  their 
mother.  I  am.  Sir,  your  obedient  servant, 

"  C.  J.   Moulton-Barrett." 
To  The  New  York  Times  Saturday  Review  : 

"  To  judge  by  The  New  York  Times  Saturday  Review  and  other  newspapers, 
the  general  impression  appears  to  be  that  I  am  the  only  member  of  the  family  object- 
ing to  the  publication  of  the  Browning  letters.  My  brothers  strongly  objected,  and 
earnestly  entreated  Mr.  Browning  in  the  event  of  his  obstinacy  to  expunge  the  pass- 
ages likely  to  give  pain.  That  he  paid  no  attention  to  their  request  is  evident  from 
the  scurrilous  attacks  on  my  father.  Mr.  Browning's  intention  appears  to  have  been 
to  clear  his  father's  extraordinary  conduct  at  the  expense  of  mine. 

"  Clever  men  are  not  exempt  from  the  rules  that  govern  society.  Far  from 
taking  the  usual  and  correct  course,  Mr.  Robert  Browning,  although  engaged  to  his 
daughter,  studiously  avoided  not  only  her  father,  but  her  six  brothers,  not  one  of 
them  having  the  slightest  suspicion  of  the  engagement.     1  am  in  my  eighty-fitfh 


88  Browning. 

Such  are  the  facts  underlying  the  story  of  Brown- 
ing's marriage  to  Elizabeth  Barrett.     Seen  by  their 

year,  and  cannot  be  far  from  my  grave,  and  I  solemnly  affirm  that  the  idea  of  an 
engagement  never  once  occurred  to  me. 

"  From  the  confinement  to  her  bed  for  many  years,  owing  to  an  injury  to  her 
spine,  to  the  long  illness  in  London,  my  father  had  ever  been  most  tender  and  affec- 
tionate to  her.  Seldom  without  anxiety  on  her  account,  he  has  been  described  as  a 
tyrant.  The  blow  came  when  he  was  over  seventy.  How  many  of  us  at  that  age 
would  calmly  turn  the  other  cheek  to  the  smiter,  who,  by  a  shameful  deception,  had 
forfeited  all  claim  on  our  generosity  ?  The  statement  of  a  nameless  '  cousin  '  that  my 
father  objected  to  the  sacrament  of  marriage,  however  contemptible,  may  yet  be 
greedily  swallowed.  Like  many  others,  he  regarded  marriage  seriously,  and  he 
refused  his  consent  when  he  conceived  the  marriage  would  prove  unhappy.  Parents 
constantly  exercise  the  right,  which,  indeed,  is  their  duty,  without  being  tyrants  and 
bitter  opponents  to  marriage. 

"As  regards  myself,  it  matters  little.  The  extract  relating  to  The  Examiner 
proves  indeed  Mr.  Browning's  possession  of  the  '  extreme  delicacy  '  his  friends  claim 
for  him.  A  private  letter,  no  matter  what  the  subject  or  the  means  by  which  he  obtains 
it,  he  publishes  without  the  shadow  of  an  excuse.  A  little  vexation,  however,  not 
intended  as  prey  to  Mr.  Browning,  and  the  sneers  of  strangers  will  not  change  in  the 
slightest  degree  the  conviction  that  my  sister  loved  me  with  all  my  imperfections. 
My  sole  object  has  been  the  defence  of  my  father,  one  who  reverenced  religion,  and 
who  throughout  a  long  life  never  committed  one  act  unworthy  of  a  man  of  honour. 
It  was  my  imperative  duty,  and  it  has  given  me  inexpressible  pain.  On  the  present 
Mr.  Browning  rests  the  scandal,  and  I  hope  it  pleases  him. 

"  I  am,  Sir,  your  obedient  servant, 

"  C.  j.  Moulton-Barrett, 

"Jacksontown,  Island  of  Jamaica, 
June  27,  1899." 


It  is  quite  possible  that  these  letters  represent  the  view  taken  by  Mr.  Barrett  him- 
self of  his  attitude  toward  his  daughter,  and  for  that  reason  they  are  interesting. 
That  they  constitute  a  valid  defence  of  his  action  is  not,  however,  to  be  admitted. 
Miss  Barrett  abhorred  the  secrecy  it  was  necessary  to  maintain,  and  her  belief  that 
secrecy  was  necessary  was  founded  on  her  knowledge  of  her  sister's  experience.  The 
contention  that  anxiety  for  her  health  was  the  ruling  motive  in  her  father's  mind  is 
untenable  in  the  face  of  his  refusal  to  consent  to  the  Italian  trip,  which  her  doctors 
considered  of  vital  importance.  The  one  point  in  which  lAx.  Moulton-Barrett's 
explanation  seems  justified  by  the  facts  lies  in  the  sentence  :  "  Like  many  others, 
he  regarded  marriage  seriously,  and  he  refused  to  consent  when  he  conceived  the 
marriage  would  prove  unhappy." 

A  jesting  allusion  in  one  of  Mrs.  Browning's  letters  indicates  that  her  brothers  (and 
probably  her  father)  strongly  objected  to  marriage  on  a  small  income  under  any  cir- 
cumstances. Browning's  income  was  not  only  small  but  extremely  precarious,  and 
even  with  the  addition  of  his  wife's  property  their  financial  estate  could  not  be  con- 


leilsabetb  Barrett 


89 


light  the  clandestine  element,  which  before  had 
seemed  unnecessarily  romantic  and  undignified, 
becomes  comprehensible  and  inevitable. 

sidered  remarkably  prosperous  until  they  received  Mr.  Kenyon's  legacy,  although  he 
had  made  them  an  allowance  of  two  hundred  pounds  a  year  after  their  marriage. 

While  this  might  explain  Mr.  Barrett's  aversion  to  marriage  in  particular  cases, 
it  certainly  does  not  excuse  his  brutality  in  the  exercise  of  such  authority  as  he 
deemed  within  his  right,  nor  does  it  justify  his  continued  anger  against  a  daughter 
whose  secret  marriage  (at  the  age  of  forty)  was,  in  his  own  words,  the  only  offence 
she  had  ever  committed.  Apparently  any  injury  to  his  self-love  was  the  unforgiv- 
able sin. 


CHAPTER  V. 
MARRIED  LIFE. 

*'  T  HAVE  here,"  wrote  Mrs.  Jameson,  from  Paris, 
I  just  after  the  Brownings  arrived  there  on 
L  their  wedding  journey,  *'a  poet  and  a  poet- 
ess— two  celebrities  who  have  run  away  and  married 
under  circumstances  peculiarly  interesting,  and  such 
as  to  render  imprudence  the  height  of  prudence. 
Both  excellent ;  but  God  help  them  !  for  I  know  not 
how  the  two  poet  heads  and  poet  hearts  will  get  on 
through  this  prosaic  world." 

As  a  matter  of  fact  they  got  on  remarkably  well 
from  the  purely  prosaic  standpoint.  In  their  letters 
they  had  discussed  their  financial  situation  with  de- 
lightful candour  and  good-feeling.  Mrs.  Browning 
had  several  hundred  pounds  income  from  property 
which  she  held  in  her  own  right,  and  Browning's 
mind  was  freed  from  anxiety  on  her  account  should 
his  own  precarious  mode  of  money-getting  fail  him 
at  times. 

His  pride  took  the  self-respecting  form  of  prefer- 
ring strict  economy,  even  abstemiousness,  to  debt 


fIDarneb  Xtfe.  .  91 

or  obligation.  "After  we  marry,  nobody  must  hear 
of  us,"  he  had  said  before  his  marriage  ;  and  there  is 
every  indication  that  nobody  did  hear  of  them  in  the 
role  of  borrowers.  Early  in  their  career  Mrs.  Brown- 
ing reports  that  they  spent  "  scarcely  three  hundred 
pounds  a  year,"  and  had  "every  luxury."  Neither 
of  them  was  a  victim  of  the  so-called  artistic  tem- 
perament, and  Mrs.  Jameson  presently  confessed  that 
their  housekeeping  was  an  example  to  her. 

From  Paris  they  went  to  Pisa,  living,  for  six 
months,  in  a  suite  of  four  rooms,  in  the  great  Col- 
legio  built  by  Vasari,  near  the  Duomo  and  Lean- 
ing Tower.  The  daily  intercourse  of  common  life 
brought  no  disillusionment.  Mrs.  Browning's  health 
steadily  improved  under  the  stimulus  of  happiness, 
and  in  her  letters  the  pictures  drawn  of  their  pleas- 
ant home  in  the  midst  of  Pisa's  beauty  and  repose, 
where  they  lived  simply  and  worked  worthily,  ap- 
peal to  the  most  restricted  imagination. 

It  was  during  this  period  that  Sonnets  from  the 
Portuguese  were  shown  to  Browning,  and  the  little 
account  by  Mr.  Gosse  explains  the  way  in  which 
the  two  poets  preserved  their  intellectual  independ- 
ence. 

"Their  custom  was,  Mr.  Browning  said,  to  write 
alone,  and  not  to  show  each  other  what  they  had 
written.  This  was  a  rule  which  he  sometimes  broke 
through,  but  she  never.  He  had  the  habit  of  work- 
ing in  a  downstairs  room  where  their  meals  were 
spread,  while  Mrs.  Browning  studied  in  a  room  on 


92  Browning. 

the  floor  above.  One  day  early  in  1847,  their  break- 
fast being  over,  Mrs.  Browning  went  up-stairs,  while 
her  husband  stood  at  the  window  watching  the 
street  till  the  table  should  be  cleared.  He  was 
presently  aware  of  someone  behind  him,  although 
the  servant  was  gone.  It  was  Mrs.  Browning,  who 
held  him  by  the  shoulder  to  prevent  his  turning  to 
look  at  her,  and  at  the  same  time  pushed  a  packet 
of  papers  into  the  pocket  of  his  coat.  She  told  him 
to  read  that,  and  to  tear  it  up  if  he  did  not  like  it ; 
and  then  she  fled  again  to  her  own  room." 

Browning  ''dared  not"  reserve  to  himself,  he 
said,  ''the  finest  sonnets  written  in  any  language 
since  Shakespeare's."  Through  Miss  Mitford's  agency 
they  were  printed  under  the  title.  Sonnets  by  E.  B. 
B.,  with  the  imprint  "Reading,  1847,"  and  marked 
"Not  for  publication."  In  the  1850  edition  of  Mrs. 
Browning's  poems  they  appeared  as  Sonnets  from 
the  Portuguese,  a  title  suggested  by  Browning  "for 
the  sake  of  its  half-allusion  to  her  other  poem, 
'Caterina  to  Camoens,'  which  was  one  of  his  chief 
favourites  among  her  works." 

From  Pisa  the  Brownings  went  to  Florence 
where  they  finally  established  themselves  in  the 
Palazzo  Guidi,  the  "  Casa  Guidi "  of  the  poem,  and 
ever  since  associated  with  their  memory. 

Mrs.  Browning  describes  their  rooms  as  a  "  noble 
suite,"  the  favourite  rooms  of  Count  Guidi  who 
traced  connection  through  marriage  with  Dante's 
Ugolino,  and  promises  her  friends  "excellent  coffee  " 


riDarrleb  Xife.  93 

and  the  sight  of  vines  and  myrtles  and  orange  trees 
on  the  terrace.  All  this  was  obtained  for  five-and- 
twenty  guineas  a  year,  and  the  furnishing  of  ''  rococo 
chairs,  spring  sofas,  carved  bookcases,  satin  from 
cardinals'  beds,  and  the  rest"  was  done  gradually 
and  to  suit  their  taste  from  the  proceeds  of  their 
books  during  the  preceding  two  winters.  To  the 
traveller  with  no  special  associations  in  mind,  the 
Casa  Guidi,  which  now  belongs  to  Mr.  Robert  Bar- 
ret Browning,  wears  a  more  or  less  dingy  and  gloomy 
aspect  not  very  suggestive  of  the  living  place  gently 
astir  with  the  quiet,  delightful  interests  of  two  peo- 
ple who  certainly  had  caught  the  secret  of  getting 
from  life  the  best  it  contains. 

A  writer  in  the  Atlantic  for  1861  gives  the  con- 
temporaneous impression.  Those  who  knew  the 
place  as  it  was  can  never  forget  *'the  square  ante- 
room, with  its  great  picture  and  pianoforte,  at  which 
the  boy  Browning  passed  many  an  hour, — the  little 
dining-room  covered  with  tapestry,  where  hung 
medallions  of  Tennyson,  Carlyle,  and  Robert  Brown- 
ing,— the  long  room  filled  with  plaster  casts  and 
studies,  which  was  Mr.  Browning's  retreat, — and, 
dearest  of  all,  the  large  drawing-room  where  she 
always  sat.  It  opens  upon  a  balcony  filled  with 
plants,  and  looks  out  upon  the  old  iron-grey  church 
of  Santa  Felice.  There  was  something  about  this 
room  that  seemed  to  make  it  a  proper  and  especial 
haunt  for  poets.  The  dark  shadows  and  subdued 
light  gave  it  a  dreamy  look,  which  was  enhanced  by 


94  Browning. 

the  tapestry-covered  walls,  and  the  old  pictures  of 
saints  that  looked  out  sadly  from  their  carved  frames 
of  black  wood.  Large  bookcases,  constructed  of 
specimens  of  Florentine  carving  selected  by  Mr. 
Browning,  were  brimming  over  with  wise-looking 
books.  Tables  were  covered  with  more  gaily  bound 
volumes,  the  gifts  of  brother  authors. 

''  Dante's  grave  profile,  a  cast  of  Keats'  face  and 
brow  taken  after  death,  a  pen  and  ink  sketch  of 
Tennyson,  the  genial  face  of  the  boy  Browning,  all 
attracted  the  eye  in  turn,  and  gave  rise  to  a  thousand 
musings.  A  quaint  mirror,  easy  chairs  and  sofas, 
and  a  hundred  nothings  that  always  add  an  inde- 
scribable charm,  were  all  massed  in  this  room.  But 
the  glory  of  all,  and  that  which  sanctified  all,  was 
seated  in  a  low  arm-chair  near  the  door.  A  small 
table,  strewn  with  writing  materials,  books,  and 
newspapers,  was  always  by  her  side." 

Among  these  surroundings  Browning  wrote  the 
fifty  poems  published  in  1855  under  the  title  of  Men 
and  Women,  a  marvellous  collection  of  verse,  in 
which  are  found  in  swift  alternation  delicacy  and 
passion,  quietude  and  storm,  grim  honesty  and  ex- 
quisite fancy,  the  ripe  and  ruddy  fruit  of  his  observa- 
tion and  practice  suddenly  taking  its  perfect  colour 
in  the  warmth  of  his  new  interests.  Here  also  Mrs. 
Browning  wrote  Aurora  Leigh  and  the  long  series  of 
poems  inspired  by  her  constantly  deepening  concern 
for  the  national  affairs  of  Italy. 

In  1849  a  son  was  born  and  seems  in  nowise  to 


Alfred,  Lord  Tennyso7i,  i8^g. 

By  G.  F.  Watts.  R.A. 


nI^arrle^  %xtc.  95 

have  overtaxed  the  ability  of  the  poets  to  adapt 
themselves  without  difficulty  to  the  conditions  of 
married  life.  These  conditions  in  their  case  were 
far  from  complex — fifteen  months  after  her  marriage 
Mrs.  Browning  wrote  in  a  letter  to  Mrs.  Jameson  : 
"  We  live  just  as  we  did  when  you  knew  us,  just  as 
shut-up  a  life.  Robert  never  goes  anywhere  except 
to  take  a  walk  with  Flush,  which  is  n't  my  fault,  as 
you  may  imagine :  he  has  not  been  out  one  even- 
ing of  the  fifteen  months  ;  but  what  with  music 
and  books  and  writing  and  talking,  we  scarcely 
know  how  the  days  go,  it 's  such  a  gallop  on  the 
grass." 

She,  at  least,  recognised  with  amusing  naivete, 
and  the  common  sense  that  lay  beneath  all  her 
ardours  of  expression,  how  severely  the  absolute 
seclusion  and  "perpetual  tete-a-tete " tested  the  gen- 
uine quality  of  their  affection,  and  showed  a  child- 
like triumph  and  delight  in  avowing  it ;  and  a  joy 
that  was  far  from  childlike  in  realising  how  futile 
were  the  hesitations  she  had  felt  in  making  what 
seemed  to  her  the  ungracious  gift  of  a  life  much  worn 
with  sickness  and  sorrow. 

It  was  a  long  time  before  her  astonishment  at  the 
possibilities  of  the  new  life  subsided  ;  and  her  letters 
contain  reiterated  allusions  making  a  species  of  cal- 
endar on  which  the  lengthening  term  of  her  satisfac- 
tion is  recorded. 

'*  Robert  and  I  are  deep  in  the  fourth  month  of 
wedlock,  and  there  has  not  been  a  shadow  between 


98  Browning. 

however,  was  the  contempt  he  felt  for  parodies  as 
vulgarising  what  truly  is  great  or  beautiful.  No  one 
acquainted  with  his  poetry  can  doubt  what  is  com- 
monly said  of  him,  that  he  liked  to  talk,  that  talking 
was  a  joyous  exercise  to  him,  indulged  in  with  inex- 
haustible relish,  and  his  memory  was  so  keen  for 
odds  and  ends  of  fact  and  rhyme  and  knowledge 
that  conversation  with  him  must  have  been  as  stimu- 
lating as  it  was  fluent  In  Carlyle's  account  of  a 
trip  they  made  together  this  sentence  stands  out : 

"  And  so  away  we  went,  Browning  talking  very 
loud  and  with  vivacity,  I  silent  rather,  tending  to- 
wards many  thoughts." 

Mrs.  Browning's  ''agreeable  low  voice  "  was  also 
ardent  in  discussion,  and  Hawthorne  describes  her 
as  "  of  that  quickly  appreciative  and  responsive  order 
of  woman  with  whom  I  can  talk  more  freely  than 
with  any  man  ;  and  she  has,  besides,  her  own  orig- 
inality, wherewith  to  help  on  conversation,  though, 
I  should  say,  not  of  a  loquacious  tendency." 

There  has  never  been  any  better  personal  descrip- 
tion of  the  Browningsasthey  appeared  together  than 
the  simple,  firm  outline  given  in  Mrs.  Ritchie's  note 
taken  from  her  girlish  diary  : 

"  She  is  very  small,  she  is  brown,  with  dark  eyes 
and  dead  brown  hair ;  she  has  white  teeth,  and  a 
low,  curious  voice  ;  she  has  a  manner  full  of  charm 
and  kindness  ;  she  rarely  laughs,  but  is  always 
cheerful  and  smiling  ;  her  eyes  are  very  bright.  Her 
husband  is  not  unlike  her.     He  is  short ;  he  is  dark, 


John  Morley. 


flDarrie^  Xife.  99 

with  a  frank,  open  countenance  ;  long  hair,  streaked 
with  grey  ;  he  opens  his  mouth  wide  when  he 
speaks  ;  he  has  white  teeth." 

The  intense  nervous  irritability  from  which  both 
suffered  is  the  background  giving  strong  relief  to  the 
charm  of  their  relation.  With  Browning's  gentleness 
and  kindness  of  disposition  went  a  superfluity  of  vital 
energy  which,  in  Mrs.  Browning's  words,  ''struck 
its  fangs  into  him  "  when  he  was  not  actively  em- 
ployed, and  he  had  his  hours  of  extreme  depression, 
fairly  matching  the  innate  melancholy  of  his  wife's 
temperament.  The  fact  that  their  intercourse,  so  far 
as  may  be  judged  from  the  intimate  records  of  pass- 
ing days  and  moods,  was  the  perfection  of  good- 
humour  and  mutual  understanding, — the  equivalent 
of  forbearance— is  eloquent  testimony  to  their  fitness 
for  each  other  in  practical  as  in  ideal  respects. 

That  they  held  independent  opinions  on  many 
subjects  was,  of  course  true  ;  and  Mrs.  Browning's 
credulity  in  the  matter  of  spiritualism  probably  came 
nearest  being  the  rock  of  danger  in  the  lively  course 
of  their  discussions. 

That  Browning,  in  spite  of  his  mystical  tenden- 
cies, was  not  credulous  is  sufficiently  obvious  from 
his  poem  Mr.  Sludge,  the  Medium.  In  Dr.  Berdoe's 
Encyclopcedia  an  admirable  analysis  of  the  poem  is 
followed  by  a  protest  against  the  stupidity  by  which 
arguments  used  by  Sludge  in  favour  of  his  profession 
have  been  fastened  now  and  again  upon  Browning 
as  expressions  of  his  personal  view. 


loo  Browning* 

''Mrs.  Browning  was  an  ardent  spiritualist,"  he 
says,  "and  Mr.  Browning,  in  consequence,  had  con- 
siderable experience  of  the  ways  of  mediums  and  the 
talk  and  arguments  of  their  followers.  Although  no 
medium  ever  reasoned  with  such  skill  and  subtlety 
as  Sludge,  the  main  arguments  used  by  this  impostor 
are  precisely  those  put  forward  by  spiritualists.  The 
mediums  are  a  wretchedly  weak,  invertebrate  order 
of  beings,  quite  incapable  of  any  such  virile  processes 
of  thought  as  those  expressed  in  the  poem.  There 
could  be  no  greater  mistake  than  to  suppose  that 
Mr.  Browning  meant  to  make  any  defence  for  any 
phase  of  spiritualism  whatever ;  he  has  simply 
gathered  into  a  poem  the  best  which  could  be  put 
forward  for  spiritualism  and  directed  it  upon  the  per- 
sonality of  Sludge.  Intimate  friends  of  the  Brownings 
assure  me  that  Mr.  Browning  with  great  difficulty 
restrained  his  disgust  at  the  practices  of  spiritual- 
ists, and  his  annoyance  at  the  fact  that  his  wife 
devoted  so  much  time  and  attention  to  this  aspect  of 
human  folly.  Perhaps  the  feature  which  angered 
him  most  was  the  habit  of  trading  upon  and  outrag- 
ing the  most  sacred  feelings  of  the  human  heart  in 
the  endeavour  to  gain  clients  for  a  money-making 
occupation." 

There  is  no  sign  in  the  letters  that  Browning  ever 
failed  to  ''restrain  his  disgust,"  or  that  any  serious 
difference  arose  between  himself  and  his  wife  on  the 
subject.  In  fact,  allusions  to  his  being  "  interested  " 
though  "sceptical,"  and  to  amiable  concessions  in 


r8>arde^  Xife.  loi 

particular  cases,  indicate  that  he  showed  a  quite 
subtle  consideration  in  expressing  his  disapproval. 
Mrs.  Browning's  impulse  toward  belief  may  be  ex- 
plained in  part  by  her  interest  in  contemporary 
problems,  spiritualism  in  its  modern  form  having 
descended  upon  America  and  invaded  Europe  dur- 
ing the  decade  between  1845  and  1855.  ''  You  know 
I  am  rather  a  visionary,"  she  wrote,  "  and  inclined  to 
knock  round  at  all  the  doors  of  the  present  world  to 
try  to  get  out."  Thus  when  the  mania  for  table- 
tipping  and  rapping,  and  spirit-writing,  began  to 
spread  in  Florentine  society  she  threw  herself  into 
the  controversy  with  the  zeal  of  a  pioneer  nature. 

This  modernity  of  interest  shows  itself  in  her 
work  in  marked  contrast  to  Browning's  pre-occupa- 
tion  with  the  history,  the  romance,  and  politics  of 
past  centuries.  When  the  idea  of  a  novel  written  in 
verse  occurred  to  her  she  determined  that  it  should 
"comprehend  the  aspect  and  manners  of  modern 
life"  and  "flinch  at  nothing  conventional."  The 
idea  was  carried  out  in  Aurora  Leigh,  published  in 
1856,  nine  years  after  the  publication  oi  Jane  Eyre 
to  which  it  has  been  said  to  owe  its  inspiration.  A 
similarity  of  plot  certainly  exists  ;  both  heroines  are 
under  the  care  of  an  unsympathetic  aunt ;  in  each 
case  the  aunt  dies  suddenly  ;  in  each  case  also  the 
hero  loses  his  eyesight  through  saving  a  human  be- 
ing from  a  fire  in  which  his  house  burns  down.  The 
resemblance  was  either  accidental,  or  the  result  of 
indirect  and  unconscious  suggestion,  however,   as 


102  Browning. 

a  letter  from  Mrs.  Browning  to  Mrs.  Jameson  re- 
veals. 

One  passage  in  the  poem  gives  direct  expression 
to  its  author's  philosophy  of  poetry  : 

Poets  should 
Exert  a  double  vision  ;  should  have  eyes 
To  see  near  things  as  comprehensibly 
As  if  afar  they  took  their  point  of  sight, 
And  distant  things,  as  intimately  deep. 
As  if  they  touched  them.     Let  us  strive  for  this. 
I  do  distrust  the  poet  who  discerns 
No  character  or  glory  in  his  times, 
And  trundles  back  his  soul  five  hundred  years, 
Past  moat  and  drawbridge,  into  a  castle-court, 
Oh,  not  to  sing  of  lizards  or  of  toads 
Alive  i'  the  ditch  there  ! — 't  were  excusable  ; 
But  of  some  black  chief,  half  knight,  half  sheep-lifter, 
Some  beauteous  dame,  half  chattel  and  half  queen, 
As  dead  as  must  be,  for  the  greater  part, 
The  poems  made  on  their  chivalric  bones. 
And  that  's  no  wonder  :  death  inherits  death. 
Nay,  if  there  's  room  for  poets  in  the  world 
A  little  overgrown  (I  think  there  is) 
Their  sole  work  is  to  represent  the  age, 
Their  age,  not  Charlemagne's, — this  live,  throbbing  age, 
That  brawls,  cheats,  maddens,  calculates,  aspires, 
And  spends  more  passion,  more  heroic  heat. 
Betwixt  the  mirrors  of  its  drawing-rooms. 
Than  Roland  with  his  knights,  at  Roncesvalles. 
To  flinch  from  modern  varnish,  coat,  or  flounce, 
Cry  out  for  togas  and  the  picturesque. 
Is  fatal, — foolish  too.     King  Arthur's  self 
Was  commonplace  to  Lady  Guinever  ; 
And  Camelot  to  minstrels  seemed  as  flat 
As  Regent  street  to  poets. 

The  first  edition  of  Idylls  of  the  King  was  pub- 
lished in  1859,  too  late  for  any  suspicion  of  its  con- 


flI^arrle^  Xife.  103 

nection  with  this  remonstrance  which,  nevertheless, 
is  pertinent  to  Tennyson's  unreality  of  impression. 
That  Mrs.  Browning,  herself,  flinched  visibly  in  the 
presence  of  reality  pure  and  simple,  is  shown  by  her 
commentary  on  the  performance  of  La  Dame  aux 
Camelias :  "The  exquisite  acting,  the  too  literal 
truth  to  nature  everywhere,  was  exasperating— there 
was  something  profane  in  such  familiar  handling  of 
life  and  death.  Art  has  no  business  with  real  grave- 
clothes  when  she  wants  tragic  drapery." 

Browning,  who  undeniably  possessed  the  power 
to  see  "distant  things  as  intimately  deep  as  though 
he  touched  them,"  had  a  much  keener  sense  of  the 
separation  between  reality  and  the  shows  of  reality, 
and  of  the  true  significance  between  the  outward 
and  visible  sign  and  the  informing  spirit.  That  his 
favourite  novel  was  Madame  Bovary  in  which  "  in- 
tensity of  illusion  "  dominates  all  other  qualities,  is 
testimony  to  his  consistency  in  realism. 

During  the  fifteen  years  of  their  married  life  the 
Brownings  left  Italy  three  times  for  trips  of  several 
months'  duration.  To  travel  was  a  passion  with  both 
of  them  and  in  Paris  particularly  the  "blaze  of  life  " 
delighted  them.  Mrs.  Browning  was  seldom  the 
worse  for  a  journey  and  entered  with  infinite  gayety 
into  the  drama  of  new  places.  In  the  city  swimming 
in  verdure  and  "  beautiful  as  Venice  on  the  waters," 
she  cared  like  a  child  for  the  bright  green  trees 
and  gardens,  the  restaurants  and  the  dining  a  la 
carte,  the  "mixing  up  one's  dinner  with  heaps  of 


I04  Brownina. 

newspapers,"  the  shops,  and  prints,  the  cocked  hat 
of  M.  le  President,  the  snug  apartments,  the  fetes 
and  processions.  Her  letters  show  also  that  in  spite 
of  her  long  seclusion  she  met  new  people  with  enthu- 
siasm and  was  easily  pleased  with  difficult  tempera- 
ments. Carlyle  she  found  "the  most  interesting 
man"  she  could  imagine,  and  "understood  per- 
fectly" that  his  "bitterness  was  only  melancholy 
and  his  scorn  sensibility."  A  letter  from  Mazzini 
gave  her  access  to  George  Sand,  and  that  positive, 
impulsive,  liberal  personality  distinctly  appealed  to 
her,  as  it  did  not  to  Browning,  who  found  incivility 
in  the  "calm  disdain"  of  manner  with  which  the 
Frenchwoman  met  her  worshipping  circle. 

When  they  visited  England  they  saw  Tennyson, 
Rossetti,  Ruskin,  Carlyle,  and  other  friends,  and 
went  more  or  less  into  general  society  as  they  did 
also  during  the  latter  part  of  their  life  in  Italy. 

Wherever  they  went  and  whatever  they  did  they 
gave  the  impression  of  people  perpetually  interested  in 
the  human  spectacle,  and  resolute  to  get  from  experi- 
ence every  legitimate  satisfaction.  They  were  neither 
Bohemian  nor  Philistine,  yet  something  of  each  was 
in  them.  They  carried  into  a  simple  and  even  sedate 
routine  of  work  and  play  the  spirit  of  vagabondage,  a 
liberal  delight  in  the  passing  hour  and  trivial  incident. 

"  Forty  days  !  that  is  almost  the  life  of  a  man,  if 
one  counts  in  life  only  the  moments  worth  counting," 
said  M.  de  Boufflers  ;  but  for  these  two  the  time  was 
extended  to  fifteen  years. 


CHAPTER  VI. 
BROWNING'S  MEN  AND  WOMEN. 

THE  title  of  the  two  volumes  published  in  1855, 
when  Browning  was  forty-three,  and  had 
been  nine  years  married,  might  very  well 
stand  as  the  title  of  his  complete  work  from  Pauline  to 
Asolando.  From  first  to  last  his  theme  is  ''  men  and 
women,"  and  he  divides  his  interest  quite  impartially 
between  the  complexities  of  masculine  and  feminine 
character.  For  this  reason,  among  many  others,  he 
is  separated  from  the  sentimental  poets  to  whom 
the  ewig  weibliche  means  pretty  much  one  thing  ; 
whose  heroines  are  dark  or  fair,  passionate  or  gen- 
tle, but  singularly  unresourceful,  intellectually  and 
emotionally. 

He,  himself,  in  the  lines  called  Poetics,  indicates 
the  angle  made  by  his  method  with  that  of  the 
rhapsodists.  It  is  ''  the  foolish  "  who  say  "  flower " 
and  ''  rose  "  and  ''  swan,  she  is,"  or  ''  maid-moon." 
No  such  'Wain  words  "  from  him  : 

Be  the  moon  the  moon  :  my  love  I  place  beside  it  ; 

What  is  she  ?   Her  human  self, — no  lower  word  will  serve. 

105 


io6  Browning. 

The  fact  that  ''  her  human  self"  is  conspicuously 
endowed  with  a  faculty  for  introspective  analysis  of 
alloyed  motives  and  emotions  brings  her  into  com- 
parison with  the  heroines  of  novels  and  plays, — 
of  Meredith's  novels  and  of  Shakespeare's  plays,  to 
make  the  favourite  choice  of  Browning  critics, — and 
not  with  the  heroines  of  Tennyson,  or  Rossetti,  or 
Byron,  or  Burns,  or  Spenser,  or  even  Chaucer  who 
knew  so  many  histories  of  "  wemen  goode  and 
trewe." 

Browning's  women  have  been  complained  of  as 
too  intellectual,  but  in  mental  capacity  they  certainly 
do  not  outdo  those  Portias  and  Beatrices  and  Kathar- 
ines whose  parts  were  played  by  half-grown  boys  in 
that  austere  "  plaie-house  on  the  Bancke  in  the 
Parishe  of  Saint-Saviour's  called  the  Globe,"  and  in 
whom  the  reasoning  faculties  were  never  considered 
disagreeably  preponderant.  The  difference  lies,  per- 
haps, in  the  absence  of  a  lightness  of  wit,  which  is 
by  no  means  an  especially  feminine  characteristic, 
but  which  Browning  could  not  give  to  his  women 
because  he  did  not  himself  possess  it  in  any  marked 
degree,  and  which  Shakespeare  could  be  lavish  of 
because  he  had  it  in  such  abundance.  Certainly,  if 
we  look  to  Browning's  heroines  for  sallies  of  brilliant 
mockery  or  even  of  clever  playfulness  we  shall  not  be 
satisfied  ;  and,  since  they  are  represented  chiefly  by 
monologues,  they  have  an  air  of  self-consciousness 
that  interferes  with  the  potent  charm  they  undoubt- 
edly possess.     It  is  this  defect  in  the  manner  of  their 


Browning's  (IDcn  an^  Momen.  107 

expression  much  more  than  the  matter  of  their 
thought  that  gives  them  their  disquieting  aspect  of 
has-hleiis. 

Moreover,  they  share,  with  Browning's  men,  the 
excessive  loquacity  which  lessens  the  vigor  of  his 
otherwise  robust  and  masculine  style.  How  much 
the  style  was  of  the  man  could  not  be  known  before 
the  publication  of  the  letters  to  Miss  Barrett.  A  re- 
viewer in  The  Academy  once  wrote  : 

''  Browning's  characters  think  aloud  under  all  cir- 
cumstances. A  dialogue  between  two  lovers,  in  a 
given  difficult  situation,  is  with  him  a  matter  in 
which  both  not  only  think,  but  feel  aloud  to  each 
other,  as  never  two  lovers  did  or  could."  That  two 
lovers  could  and  did  thus  think  and  feel  aloud  to  each 
other  is  now  proven  beyond  dispute. 

It  is  shallow  enough  to  assume  that  such  redund- 
ant self-expression  is  evidence  of  a  shallow  mind, 
but  it  can  hardly  be  denied  that  in  Browning's  case 
it  is  evidence  of  a  somewhat  disorderly  mind.  As 
Landor  put  it :  ''Few  of  the  Athenians  had  such  a 
quarry  on  their  property,  but  they  constructed  better 
roads  for  the  conveyance  of  the  material."  And  as 
Browning's  characters  are  obliged  to  follow  the  roads 
provided  by  their  creator,  they  frequently  make  but 
stumbling  progress  toward  unity  of  effect.  One  of 
the  two  requisites  of  a  great  writer,  according  to 
Matthew  Arnold's  formula,  he  therefore  lacks.  No 
stretch  of  the  imagination  can  grant  him  ''  a  perfectly 
sound  and  classical  style."    To  the  other  and  more 


io8  ISrownina. 

important  requisite,  however, — ideas  that  are  both 
''new  and  profound," — he  has,  perhaps,  more  claim 
than  any  other  Victorian  poet. 

One  of  these  ideas  underlies  a  singularly  magnani- 
mous conception  of  the  relation  between  men  and 
women,  a  conception  as  far  removed  from  the  old, 
narrow  spirit  of  chivalry  as  from  the  later  spirit  of 
purely  romantic  sentiment.  Mr.  Swinburne  has  as- 
signed him  the  palm  "  for  depth  of  pathos  and  subt- 
lety of  knowledge"  as  against  M.  Leconte  de  Lisle's 
''height  of  spirit  and  sublimity  of  song,"  and  if  we 
trace  to  its  source  "the  piercing  and  overpowering 
tenderness  which  glorifies  the  poet  of  Pompilia,"  we 
shall  find  it  arises  from  an  intense  belief  in  the  value 
of  unselfishness  in  love  as  a  moral  force  in  a  world 
where  crude  impulses  clash  with  self-restraint  to 
make  of  every  strenuous  nature  a  field  of  repeated 
battles. 

A  sentence  in  one  of  his  letters  to  Miss  Barrett 
confirms  the  impression  given  by  a  large  proportion 
of  his  love-poems:  "The  selfishness  I  deprecate," 
he  says,  "is  one  which  a  good  many  women,  and 
men  too,  call  '  real  passion  ' — under  the  influence  of 
which  I  ought  to  say,  '  be  mine,  whatever  happens 

to  fOU.'" 

The  fact  that  in  a  small  proportion  of  the  poems 
this  personal  conviction  is  ignored  completely  for  the 
sake  of  an  adequate  interpretation  of  the  wild  temper 
he  "deprecates"  and  marvellously  divines,  has  in- 
spired many  of  his  critics  with  a  sense  of  his  "  Bohe- 


BrowninG'0  HDen  an^  Momen.  109 

mian  "  tendencies,  and  the  lesson  of  The  Statue  and 
the  Bust  has  been  pertinently  quoted  to  prove  that 
zeal  was  for  him  the  chief  virtue  however  unworthy 
its  object.  ''  There  is  no  sin  for  him  like  repression," 
says  Mr.  Stedman,  '*no  sting  like  regret,  no  requital 
for  the  opportunity  slighted  and  gone  by." 

But  if  we  stop  there  we  miss  the  real  Browning 
who  could  not  by  any  possibility  glorify  the  vice  and 
folly  by  which  unhappiness  is  sown  among  innocent 
people.  His  question,  the  answer  to  which  he  seeks 
with  indefatigable  energy  and  inexhaustible  interest, 
is  that  formulated  by  the  Duke  of  Argyll :  ''  What 
are  the  moral  limits  imposed  upon  human  desires, 
tastes,  and  aspirations,  within  which  alone  they  can 
be  useful  or  beneficent?"  While  the  "unlit  lamp 
and  the  ungirt  loin  "  were  hateful  to  him,  undeniably, 
and  while,  when  he  shows  you 

how  the  devil  spends 

A  fire  God  gave  for  other  ends, 

he  is  less  contemptuous  than  when  one  of  the  church 
of  the  Laodiceans  comes  under  his  consideration  ; 
the  ultimate  interest  that  such  intensity  of  soul  has 
for  him  lies  in  the  larger  possibilities  it  offers  of 
reaching  good  through  evil,  as  he  puts  it. 

When  a  soul  has  seen 
By  the  means  of  Evil  that  Good  is  best, 

then  the  lawless  activities  of  human  nature  are  con- 
verted into  allies,  and  the  goal  becomes  a  true  Nir- 
vana, in  which  peace  and  rest  mean  equilibrium  and 


no  Browning. 

continual  enjoyment  of  the  good  alone  without  the 
sting  of  evil : 

the  child  grown  man,  you  burn  the  rod, 

The  uses  of  labour  are  surely  done  ; 

There  remaineth  a  rest  for  the  people  of  God. 

To  reach  this  conclusion  Browning  frequently  re- 
quires his  readers  to  pass  with  him  through  tolerably 
scandalous  localities,  and  investigate  with  him  situa- 
tions of  undoubted  impropriety.  The  Ring  and  the 
"Book,  A  Blot  in  the  'Scutcheon,  Fifine  at  the  Fair, 
and  many  of  the  shorter  poems  give  pictures  of  a 
sinister  and  disenchanting  world  in  which  the  men 
and  women  sorely  need  a  biographer  keen  to  dis- 
tinguish "instincts  immature"  and  ''purposes  un- 
sure," in  making  up  the  main  account  of  their  lives  ; 
one  who  like  Balaustion  peers  beneath  the  painted 
mask  to  catch  the  true  expression  of  the  face. 

And  in  this  mixed  world  of  his  poetry,  as  in  actual 
life,  it  is  sometimes  the  women  and  sometimes  the 
men  who  play  the  nobler  part.  Perhaps  a  smaller 
number  of  the  former  than  of  the  latter  reach  the 
standard  of  self-sacrificing  devotion  which  he  adopts 
as  the  ideal  standard  of  conduct  for  both  sexes. 
Even  in  the  recognised  masterpiece  of  his  creation, 
Pompilia,  the  sacrificing  instinct  of  motherhood  is 
developed  at  the  cost  of  the  man  who  will  serve  her 
turn.  In  the  interests  of  her  child  she  does  not 
hesitate  to  let  Caponsacchi  "  put  his  breast  between 
the  spears  and  her,"  and  bring  upon  himself  the  peril 
of  Guido's  revenge  ;  while  he,  "all blindness,  bravery, 


Brownlng'0  flDen  anb  Momcn.  1 1 1 

and  obedience,"  risks  everything  at  the  first  word  ot 
her  demand.  Pompilia  trusts  ''  in  the  compensating 
great  God  "  to  save  and  to  reward  him,  although  she 
had  found  her  faith  insufficient  to  meet  her  own 
need. 

More  obvious  instances  of  a  nature  in  which  the 
supreme  element  of  generosity  is  lacking,  are  such 
characters  as  Phene,  the  artist's  model  in  Pippa 
Passes,  and  Andrea  del  Sarto's  vain  and  sordid  wife. 
The  former,  made  of  commonest  clay,  without  know- 
ledge or  instinct  to  guide  her,  absorbs  the  oppor- 
tunities and  gifts  of  her  lover  in  her  own  fruitless 
existence  :  the  latter,  baser  in  motive,  fetters  the 
impulse  and  capability  of  Andrea's  brain,  careless  of 
his  ambitions,  dulling  his  insight,  starving  his  affec- 
tions, and  robbing  him  of  the  friends,  the  praise,  and 
joyous  pride  of  his  ''  long  festal  year  at  Fontaine- 
bleau." 

In  each  of  these  cases  the  man  exhibits  the  curious 
temper  of  acquiescence  that  almost  invariably  enters 
into  Browning's  conception  of  heroism  ;  and  finds 
expression  wherever  his  imaginary  lovers  are  at  odds 
with  fortune.  It  is  not  quite  the  philosophy  uttered 
by  Pendennis  when  he  finds  himself  a  victim  to  his 
own  ill-considered  act,  but  it  is  at  least  as  much  like 
it  as  Browning  is  like  Thackeray.  Pendennis  dis- 
covers that  life  is  usually  a  disappointment,  and 
reflects  that  he  never  knew  anybody  who  was  quite 
happy,  or  had  not  to  ransom  himself  out  of  the  hands 
of  Fate  with  the  payment  of  some  dearest  treasure 


112  Browning. 

or  other.  ''And  do  you  think  my  lot  is  easier  to 
bear  because  I  own  that  I  deserve  it  ?  "  he  concludes. 
With  a  similar  pride  in  not  rebelling  against  the 
inevitable,  Andrea,  musing  clear-sighted  upon  the 
dragging  chains  of  his  bondage  to  Lucrezia,  admits 
his  responsibility  ;  and  Jules  uncomplainingly  accepts 
his  task  of  developing  Phene's  av/akened  intelligence, 
letting  go  aspirations  not  again  to  be  entertained. 
Where,  as  in  The  Last  Ride  Together,  the  prize  is  un- 
attainable after  the  utmost  effort,  failure  is  unmixed 
with  bitterness  and  the  attitude  of  the  one  rebuffed 
quite  different  from ''the  latent  tendency  to  scold 
and  whine  "  which  Mr.  Swinburne  has  discovered  in 
Tennyson's  heroes : 

Since  nothing  all  my  love  avails, 
Since  all  my  life  seemed  meant  for  fails, 

Since  this  was  written  and  needs  must  be — 
My  whole  heart  rises  up  to  bless 
Your  name  in  pride  and  thankfulness. 

This  is  the  disarming  response  of  Browning's  self- 
respecting  lover,  who  seems  to  accept  Stevenson's 
definition  of  love  as  "the  essence  of  kindness,"  of 
"passionate  kindness:  kindness,  so  to  speak,  run 
mad." 

And  in  the  poem  James  Lee's  Wife  this  same 
depth  of  tenderness  and  incapacity  to  blame  the 
hand  that  strikes  is  revealed  in  the  woman,  who,  de- 
spised and  rejected  by  her  husband,  dissects  the  fabric 
of  circumstance  in  which  she  has  been  shrouded, 
to  reach  the  conclusion  that  if  she  could  ever  again 


Brownlng'0  flDen  anb  TKIlomen.  1 1 3 

believe  him  loving  her  as  he  is  loved  by  her,  then 
might  miracles  happen: 

should  1  know  or  care 

When  I  should  be  dead  of  joy,  James  Lee  ? 

Nowhere,  however,  does  the  principle  of  true  self- 
sacrifice  flower  so  winningly  and  with  so  little  the 
pose  of  martyrdom,  as  in  the  interpretation  of  Alkestis 
whose  gracious  story  is  sung  by  the  blithe  young 
Greek  Balaustion.  It  has  been  more  than  once  sug- 
gested that  the  womanly  and  wifely  charm  of  this 
Hellenic  figure  was  connected  in  Browning's  mind 
with  the  memory  of  his  own  wife,  dead  when  the 
poem  was  written.  Its  association  with  her  interest 
in  Euripides  is  plain  from  the  introductory  quotation 
from  her  IVine  of  Cypress,  commencing  ''Our  Eu- 
ripides the  human,"  and  from  the  allusion  to 

The  poetess  who  graved  in  gold 
Among  her  glories  that  shall  never  fade 
This  style  and  title  to  Euripides. 

To  the  singular  perfection  of  his  married  life  we 
must  also  credit  much  of  Browning's  wisdom  con- 
cerning "the  institution  of  the  dear  love  of  com- 
rades." He  was  qualified,  certainly,  to  understand 
the  comradeship  possible  between  a  man  and  a  wo- 
man where  the  two  natures  are  fundamentally  alike, 
and  mutual  respect  and  comprehension  can  join 
forces  with  depth  of  feeling  ;  but  his  poetry  includes 
no  such  discussion  of  the   ''woman  problem"  as 


114  ^Brownina. 

Tennyson  undertook  in  The  Princess.  He  had  no 
formula  for  the  benefits  to  be  derived  from 

Two  heads  in  council,  two  beside  the  hearth, 
Two  in  the  tangled  business  of  the  world, 
Two  in  the  liberal  offices  of  life. 

He  substitutes  for  abstract  theories  an  ardent  impres- 
sion of  the  joy  of  living  when  heart  and  brain  are 
alike  v/orthily  dedicated  to  one  great  affection. 

Into  the  poem  By  the  Fireside,  which  has  the 
veritable  and  unmistakable  accent  of  personal  feeling, 
he  has  put  his  ideal  of  womanhood  as  he  knew  it 
through  the  one  who  was  ''  dearest  and  greatest  and 
best "  to  him  in  life  as  in  genius.  With  her  in  his 
thought  he  reviews  the  past, — 

In  pride 
To  think  how  little  1  dreamed  it  led 

To  an  age  so  blest  that,  by  its  side. 
Youth  seemed  the  waste  instead, — 

and  looks  forward  to  "where  the  years  conduct" 
beyond  the  limitations  of  the  known  : 

Think,  when  our  one  soul  understands 

The  great  word  which  makes  all  things  new, 

When  earth  breaks  up  and  heaven  expands, 
How  will  the  change  strike  me  and  you 

In  the  house  not  made  with  hands  ? 

Oh,  I  must  feel  your  brain  prompt  mine, 

Your  heart  anticipate  my  heart, 
You  must  be  just  before,  in  fine. 

See  and  make  me  see  for  your  part, 
New  depths  of  the  divine. 


Robert  Browning. 


From  li/e. 


55rowning'6  flDen  anb  Momen.  1 1 5 

The  permanence  of  this  affection,  woven  of  many 
mingled  strands  of  intellectual  and  emotional  corre- 
spondence, is  shown  by  the  poems  written  after  the 
sweet  thin  voice  that  so  much  inspired  him  ceased  to 
be  heard.  It  was  three  years  before  he  wrote  the 
noble  Prospice,  ending  in  a  passionate  expression  of 
his  personal  belief  in  immortality  : 

For  sudden  the  worst  turns  the  best  to  the  brave, 

The  black  minute  's  at  end, 
And  the  elements'  rage,  the  fiend-voices  that  rave, 

Shall  dwindle,  shall  blend. 
Shall  change,  shall  become  first  a  peace  out  of  pain, 

Then  a  light,  then  thy  breast, 
O  thou  soul  of  my  soul  !  I  shall  clasp  thee  again, 

And  with  God  be  the  rest. 

it  was  seven  years  before  he  recorded  his  undi- 
minished sense  of  loss  in  the  introduction  to  The 
Ring  and  the  Book : 

Never  may  I  commence  my  song,  my  due 
To  God  who  best  taught  song  by  gift  of  thee, 
Except  with  bent  head  and  beseeching  hand — 
That  still,  despite  the  distance  and  the  dark, 
What  was,  again  may  be  ;  some  interchange 
Of  grace,  some  splendour  once  they  very  thought, 
Some  benediction  anciently  thy  smile. 

With  this  model  constantly  in  mind  it  is  not  sur- 
prising that  his  conceptions  of  women  almost  invari- 
ably include  characteristics  that  stir  the  imagination, 
and  engage  the  interest  more  deeply  than  is  usual 
with  heroines  of  poetry. 

It  is  a  dangerous  pastime  to  attempt  to  discover 
how  far  a  writer's  characters  are  a  reflection  of  him- 


ii6  BrowniiiG. 

self :  but  a  few  of  the  qualities  with  which  Brown- 
ing's are  endowed  are  too  conspicuously  in  accord 
with  his  own  temperament  to  be  neglected  as  evid- 
ence of  his  goodness  and  attractiveness,  of  the  real 
charm  and  power  of  his  nature  as  those  who  knew 
him  felt  it,  and  as  those  who  study  him  apprehend  it. 
Thus,  the  sentiment  of  compassion  toward  the 
weak  or  injured  is  not  only  a  part  of  the  very  frame- 
work of  his  poetry,  in  which  the  disappointed,  the 
misinterpreted,  those  balked  and  crushed  by  fortune, 
are  chosen  to  receive  immortality  so  far  as  it  lay  in 
his  power  to  bestow  it,  but  is  the  notable  character- 
istic of  many  of  his  dramatis  personce.  In  one  of  the 
slighter  poems  of  Asolando  three  Court  ladies  vie 
with  one  another  in  "  esteeming  the  love  of  a  man." 
The  Duchesse  would  prefer  ''a  lady's  true  lover," 
one  faithful  to  God,  to  the  King,  and  to  his  sweet- 
heart. The  Marquise  demands  not  merely  fine 
thoughts,  but  fine  deeds,  a  paladin's  service.  The 
Comtesse  makes  choice  of  ''  a  wretch  thrice  accurst," 
who  finds  in  her  love  his  refuge  from  earth  and  men's 
noise,  while  the  names  of  "infidel,"  ''traitor,"  are 
cast  up  at  him.  According  to  the  poem  this  last 
choice  ''seems  terribly  like  what,  perhaps,  gains 
God's  preference,"  and  there  is  no  doubt  whatever 
of  the  preference  in  Browning's  own  mind.  No  less 
compassionate  intelligence  could  possibly  have  con- 
ceived the  poem  called  The  IVorst  of  It ;  and  this 
tenderness  of  heart  is  extended  to  birds  and  beasts, 
for  we  find  him  not  only  writing  anti-vivisectionary 


Browning's  flDen  anb  Women*  1 1 7 

poems,  but  singing  the  praises  of  a  toad  who  loved 
him,  and  cherishing  such  repellent  creatures  as  snakes 
and  owls  in  his  household. 

Curiously  enough,  children  seemed  to  awaken  no 
special  sympathy  in  him;  and  there  are  no  poems 
the  pathos  of  which  depends  upon  the  part  they  play 
in  the  world.  That  he  was  ready  to  serve  or  please 
them  is  shown  not  only  by  his  affectionate  devotion 
to  his  own  child,  but  also  by  the  famous  Pied  Piper 
of  Hamelin,  written  for  a  sick  child  of  Macready,  to 
give  him  a  subject  for  illustrative  drawings.  But 
none  of  the  fondness  which  dimmed  Thackeray's 
spectacles  at  the  sight  of  young  faces  and  the  sound 
of  young  voices  can  be  attributed  to  him.  Child- 
hood recognises  no  failure,  no  poignant  sense  of 
hopes  relinquished  or  opportunities  gone  by;  no  one 
despises  it,  and  every  one  is  indulgent  to  it :  for  that 
reason,  perhaps,  it  made  less  appeal  to  Browning 
than  the  more  complicated  periods  of  life. 

Another  characteristic  of  his  experience  which 
finds  adequate  expression  in  his  poems  is  the  zest 
with  which  the  offices  of  friendship  may  be  fulfilled. 
The  most  conspicuous  instance  to  be  found  in  his 
biographical  records  is  the  Landor  episode.  Poor 
Landor,  who  inspired  in  Mrs.  Browning  both  amuse- 
ment and  irritation,  was  practically  on  Browning's 
hands  in  Italy,  an  exile  from  his  own  family,  and  an 
octogenarian  victim  of  circumstance  and  tempera- 
ment, turning  against  his  friends  as  freely  as  against 
his  foes.      Browning  felt  that  he  owed  more  as  a 


ii8  Browning. 

writer  to  the  old  Hellenist  than  to  any  contemporary  ; 
and,  though  he  had  seen  him  but  three  or  four  times 
in  his  life,  he  generously  took  upon  himself,  at  Lan- 
dor's  desire,  the  management  of  all  his  affairs,  ar- 
ranging every  detail  of  his  life  with  only  the  reward 
of  his  extremely  uncertain  gratitude. 

Landor,  was  of  course,  unhappy,  and  in  one  of 
her  letters  Mrs.  Browning  wrote  that  he  could  only 
be  soothed  by  having  his  own  works  quoted  to  him, 
a  service  Browning  readily  performed.  This  mis- 
chievous allusion  suggests  the  poem  written  many 
years  before,  in  which  the  service  of  David  to  the 
despairing  king  is  so  fervently  given.  It  is  easy  to 
read  Browning's  own  energy  of  devotion  in  the  song 
of  the  young  shepherd  striving  to  restore  to  "Saul 
the  mistake,  Saul  the  failure,  the  ruin  he  seems 
now,"  his  lost  self-respect,  by  recounting  the  days  of 
his  glory  and  achievement.  If  anyone  could  have 
saved  such  a  situation  from  its  humiliating  and  ri- 
diculous aspect  Browning  could,  with  his  prodigious 
susceptibility  to  the  pathos  of  a  greatly  aspiring  and 
greatly  defeated  nature.  This  deference  to  noble 
qualities  in  others  constitutes  his  great  claim  to 
humility  of  a  genuine  and  dignified  sort.  Many  of 
his  characters  share  this  trait,  which  is  not  con- 
ventional humbleness  at  all.  With  all  their  urgent 
sense  of  the  importance  to  themselves  of  every  event 
in  their  lives,  and  their  persistent  determination  to 
squeeze  from  experience  the  last  drop  of  its  juice, 
sweet  or  bitter,  they  seldom  make  the  mistake  of 


Browmna'6  fIDcn  an^  Momen.  1 19 

overestimating  their  infinitesimal  part  in  the  great 
scheme  of  the  universe.  The  "stoop  of  the  soul 
which  in  bending  upraises  it  too,"  saves  them  from 
arrogance  on  the  one  hand  and  equally  from  self-de- 
preciation on  the  other.  Nothing  human  is  alien  to 
them  nor  anything  divine.  David  is  appalled  by  his 
arrogance  in  seeking  to  surpass  the  Creator  in  his 
love  for  the  king ;  but  his  effort  toward  the  best — 
"  the  spark  within  the  clod" — removes  him  by  many 
degrees  from  the  peril  of  the  humble-minded, — the 
tendency  to  become  oppressed  by  the  insignificance 
of  the  individual,  and  to  forfeit  self-respect  by  sinking 
in  the  scale. 

With  this  union  of  humility  and  pride  Browning 
seems  to  have  been  as  nearly  as  possible  without 
vanity.  One  of  his  friends  declared  after  his  death 
that,  with  a  single  exception,  she  had  never  heard  him 
speak  of  himself  or  of  his  poems  in  the  presence  of  a 
third  person.  He  shrank  from  ostentation  of  every 
kind,  most  of  all  from  ostentatious  exclusiveness. 
He  enjoyed  mingling  with  simple  people  and  taking 
part  in  simple  pleasures.  He  was  kind  to  servants 
and  helpful  in  the  duties  of  every-day  life.  He  was 
so  generous  in  his  appreciations  that  his  criticisms  of 
the  work  of  other  writers  was  far  less  valuable  than 
that  of  his  wife.  Of  his  own  v/orks  he  possessed  no 
complete  edition  until  the  Browning  Society  gave 
him  one.  He  counted  among  his  friends  dukes  and 
duchesses,  peasants  and  artisans.  For  himself  he 
was  contented  with  modest,  even  disagreeable  sur- 


I20  Browning. 

roundings,  and  no  pension  or  title  was  ever  sug- 
gested for  him.  The  long  period  of  indifference  to 
his  poetry  on  the  part  of  English  readers  he  endured 
by  no  means  without  sorrow  and  not  entirely  with- 
out resentment,  but  in  a  spirit  fairly  represented  by 
the  well-known  two  stanzas  from  The  Ring  and  the 
Book : 


and 


Such,  British  Public,  ye  who  \\k&  me  not 

(God  love  you  ! ) — wliom  I  yet  have  laboured  for, 


So,  British  Public,  who  may  like  me  yet 
(Marry  and  amen  ! ) — 


When  he  was  finally  known  to  a  circumscribed 
but  enthusiastic  following  his  sturdy  simplicity  of 
manner  suffered  no  change. 

In  his  poems  we  find  no  single  character,  man  or 
woman,  of  such  divergent  traits  so  harmoniously 
mingled  ;  none  so  gentle  and  spirited,  so  zealous  and 
so  controlled,  so  genial  in  pleasure  and  of  such  so- 
briety in  taste  as  he  himself.     Landor  wrote  of  him  : 

Since  Chaucer  was  alive  and  hale, 
No  man  hath  walkt  along  our  roads  with  step 
So  active,  so  inquiring  eye,  or  tongue 
So  varied  in  discourse  ; 

and  in  his  own  picture  of  the  poet  who  went  ''  up 
and  down  Valladolid "  the  modest  faculty  of  ob- 
servation is  given  the  place  it  evidently  held  in 
his  scheme  of  life  : 


Browning's  flDen  anb  Momen.  1 2 1 

He  stood  and  watched  the  cobbler  at  his  trade, 
The  man  who  slices  lemons  into  drink, 
The  coffee-roaster's  brazier,  and  the  boys 
That  volunteer  to  help  him  turn  his  winch. 
He  glanced  o'er  books  on  stalls  with  half  an  eye, 
And  fly-leaf  ballads  on  the  vender's  string, 
And  broad-edge  bold-print  posters  by  the  wall. 
He  took  such  cognisance  of  men  and  things, 
If  any  beat  a  horse,  you  felt  he  saw  ; 
If  any  cursed  a  woman,  he  took  note  ; 
Yet  stared  at  nobody. 

The  commentators  of  the  future  who  build  up 
their  own  biography  of  him  from  the  hints  and  reve- 
lations of  his  poetry  and  letters,  will  doubtless  find 
in  him  the  scholarship  of  his  Grammarian,  the  phil- 
osophic mind  of  his  Ben  Ezra,  the  religious  and 
artistic  intensity  of  his  Abt  Vogler,  the  chivalrous 
instinct  of  his  Caponsacchi,  the  humour  of  his  Lippo 
Lippi,  the  loyalty  of  his  David,  the  passion  of  his 
Valence.  They  also  may  stray  farther  and  fasten 
upon  him  the  ambition  of  Sordello  or  the  despair 
of  Saul ;  but  with  one  class  of  his  various  types 
they  cannot  in  the  most  extreme  perversity  confuse 
him— the  class,  that  is,  of  the  hypocrites  and  men 
of  double  aim  :  the  Hohenstiel-Schwangaus,  the 
Sludges,  the  Chiappanos,  the  Djabals,  whom  he 
knew  through  observation  alone  and  not  from  any 
spring  of  sympathy  within  himself. 


CHAPTER  VII. 
ETHICAL  TEACHING. 

THAT  the  world  is  on  the  whole  a  benefit  to 
everyone  is,  according  to  Emerson,  the  only 
reason  to  be  given  for  its  existence.  It  is  the 
only  reason  that  Browning  gives,  the  only  one  that 
seems  to  him  in  the  least  convincing,  and  one  that  is 
confirmed  not  merely  by  every  star  that  lights  the 
heavens,  but  by  every  stone  that  blocks  the  pathway. 
What  Tennyson  called  his  "  depressing  optimism  " 
is  a  part  of  the  fabric  of  his  thought,  and  he  is  never 
weary  of  explaining  by  the  faith  that  is  in  him  all 
that  seems  to  be  perverse  and  unsound  and  futile  in 
our  complex  data  of  experience.  His  acquiescence 
in  the  existing  order  of  things  is  militant :  with  An- 
toninus he  inquires  :  "  But  that  which  does  not  make 
a  man  worse,  how  can  it  make  a  man's  life  worse  ?  " 
For  his  peculiar  mind  the  ''problem  of  evil" 
hardly  exists,  so  plain  does  it  look  to  him  that  ulti- 
mately "evil  is  null,  is  naught,  is  silence  implying 
sound,"  and  that  the  temptations,  struggles,  and  grim 
failures  through  which  we  pass  are  not  even  checks 
to  our  upward  progress,  but 


jetbical  ireacbina.  123 

Machinery  just  meant 

To  give  thy  soul  its  bent, 

Try  thee  and  turn  thee  forth,  sufficiently  impressed. 

This  feature  of  the  teaching  which  is  the  confessed 
aim  of  the  greater  part  of  his  poetry,  stands  out  in 
strong  relief,  and  most  of  his  readers  find  in  it  en- 
couragement and  exhilaration.  It  is  like  a  bright 
invincible  armour  with  which  to  protect  our  vulner- 
able temperaments,  attacked  on  every  side  by  visible 
sins  and  horrors  and  mistakes  in  battalions.  It  sug- 
gests a  vision  of  the  Judgment  day  infinitely  removed 
from  that  evoked  by  Milton's  decree  that  whoever 
disobeys 

Breaks  union,  and  that  day, 
Cast  out  from  God  and  blessed  vision,  falls 
Int'  utter  darkness,  deep  ingulfed,  his  place 
Ordained  without  redemption,  without  end. 

It  substitutes  for  the  languor  of  despondency  into 
which  those  oppressed  by  misfortune  are  inclined  to 
fall,  a  zest  of  energy  to  climb  the  rugged  places,  and 
reach,  by  means  of  the  only  path  open,  heights  of 
character  and  the  joy  of  victory. 

Optimism  so  definite  and  so  strenuous  almost 
necessarily  implies  belief  in  an  absolutely  powerful 
and  loving  Creator.  At  the  end  of  Asolando,  as  in 
Paracelsus,  Browning  emphasises  the  sympathetic 
working  of  ''  power  "  and  ''  love  "  in  the  plan  of  the 
universe ;  and  repeatedly  in  the  intervening  poems 
we  meet  these  same  expressions  used  with  the  same 
significance.     ''God's  love,  in   Browning's  mind," 


124  Browning. 

Professor  Royce  explains,  ''  does  not  mean  merely  or 
even  mainly  his  tenderness  or  pity  for  us,  or  his  de- 
sire to  see  us  happy  in  his  own  arbitrarily  appointed 
way,  but  his  delight  in  our  very  oddities,  in  the  very 
narrowness  of  our  ardent  individuality.  It  means  his 
sharing  of  our  very  weaknesses,  his  sympathy  with 
even  our  low  views  of  himself,  so  long  as  all  these 
things  mean  our  growing  like  the  plant  in  the  mine 
that  has  never  seen  the  light.  If  God  views  our  lives 
in  this  way,  then,  and  only  then,  does  he  love  us. 
He  must  love  us,  at  the  very  least,  as  the  artist  loves 
his  creations,  heartily,  open-mindedly,  joyously,  not 
because  we  are  all  fashioned  in  one  abstract  image, 
but  because  in  our  manifoldness  we  all  together  reflect 
something  of  the  wealth  of  life  in  which  he  abounds. 
This  is  the  view  of  Aprile,  never  later  abandoned  by 
Browning." 

Such  an  interpretation  of  God's  love  for  man  is  too 
personal  and  concrete  to  exclude  the  idea  of  the  In- 
carnation, and  in  many  of  Browning's  poems— in 
Saul,  and  in  Christmas  Eve  and  Easter  Day,  and  in 
Karshish — we  get  suggestions  of  the  fundamental 
doctrine  of  Christianity.  Browning  did  not,  how- 
ever, permit  himself  to  argue  the  question,  or  even 
to  impress  it  as  strongly  as  he  impresses  his  hope  of 
immortality  upon  the  reader.  In  La  Saisia^Xhxs  hope 
is  based  first  on  the  assumption  that  no  divine  intelli- 
gence would  illogically  destroy  souls  for  which  such 
elaborate  processes  of  discipline  had  been  prepared  ; 
and,  secondly,  on  the  conviction  born  of  passionate 


letbical  ^eacblng.  125 

desire  that  the  dead  shall  meet  and  know  each  other ; 
the  conviction  which  Dante  recorded  and  Browning 
echoed  : 

"Thus  I  believe,  thus  I  affirm,  thus  I  am  certain 
it  is,  that  from  this  life  I  shall  pass  to  another  better, 
there  where  that  lady  lives  of  whom  my  soul  was 
enamoured." 

This  optimism  of  cheering  and  bracing  belief  has 
been  called  the  defiance  of  facts,  and  certain  facts  the 
strong  ''  fighter "  of  Prospice  did  indeed  defy.  What- 
ever the  apparent  depth  of  night  and  storm,  or  stress 
of  battle,  he 

Never  doubted  clouds  would  break, 
Never  dreamed  though  right  were  worsted,  wrong  would  triumph, 
Held  we  fall  to  rise,  are  baffled  to  fight  better, 

Sleep  to  wake. 

How  unlike  is  this  impetus  of  faith  in  a  God- 
governed  universe  to  the  agnostic  temper  can  be  seen 
in  no  way  more  clearly  than  by  comparing  Brown- 
ing's moral  attitude  with  that  of  Matthew  Arnold,  his 
peer  in  brave  interrogation  of  problems  transcending 
codes  and  dogmas.  In  Arnold's  philosophy,  the 
impersonal  sense  of  honour,  the  obligation  of  nobil- 
ity, is  so  deeply  rooted  that  neither  creed  nor  hope  is 
required  for  its  support : 

Hath  man  no  second  life  ? — 'Pitch  this  one  high! 

Sits  there  no  Judge  in  Heaven,  our  sins  to  see? — 
More  strictly  then  the  inward  judge  obey  ! 
Was  Christ  a  man  like  us  ?    ^h  !  let  us  try 

If  we  then,  too,  can  be  such  men  as  he  ! 


126  Browning, 

In  Rabbi  benE:(ra  Browning  exuberantly  expresses 
the  overwhelming  gratitude  of  a  responsive  nature 
toward  a  Creator  who  has  conceived  an  earth  so  fair, 
a  destiny  so  inspiring,  opportunities  so  superbly  diffi- 
cult, such  salutary  afflictions,  such  stimulating  rebuffs, 
such  a  resisting  element  to  cleave  on  one's  journey 
toward  the  happy  goal  where  passion,  malice,  and 
delusion  shall  be  destroyed  for  ever.  The  prayer  of 
the  Rabbi  is  the  exultant  recognition  of  the  healthy 
soul  that  labour  and  striving  are  not  merely  endur- 
able, but  joyous,  provided  the  mental  and  moral 
system  is  unimpaired  by  disease.  The  strong  man 
delighteth  to  run  in  a  race  and  a  buoyant  spirit  has 
no  quarrel  with  fate  : 

Gifts  should  prove  their  use 

I  own  the  past  profuse 
Of  power  each  side,  perfection  every  turn  ; 

Eyes,  ears  took  in  their  dole, 

Brain  treasured  up  the  whole  ; 
Should  not  the  heart  beat  once,  "  How  good  to  live  and  learn  "  ? 

Not  once  beat  "  Praise  be  thine  ! 

I  see  the  whole  design, 
I  who  saw  power  see  now  Love  perfect,  too: 

Perfect  1  call  thy  plan : 

Thanks  that  I  was  a  man! 
Maker,  remake,  complete, —  I  trust  what  thou  shalt  do!" 

It  is  interesting  to  know  that  the  Ben  Ezra,  or  Ibn 
Ezra,  of  history,  whom  Browning  chose  in  this  case 
for  his  mouthpiece,  actually  held  these  views  of  life 
in  the  face  of  worldly  unsuccess.  "  I  strive  to  grow 
rich,"  he  is  reported  to  have  said,  ''but  the  stars  are 


letbical  ZTeacblna.  127 

against  me.  If  I  sold  shrouds,  none  would  die.  If 
candles  were  my  wares  the  sun  would  not  set  till  the 
day  of  my  death."  ^ 

The  attitude  of  mind,  however,  has  always  been 
closely  identified  with  Browning's  own,  and  rightly 
so,  as  it  is  merely  the  most  striking  statement  of  a 
belief  that  takes  various  forms  in  various  poems,  but 
is  seldom  entirely  absent  from  any  important  division 
of  his  writing. 

Nothing  could  be  more  different  from  Ben  Ezra's 
spiritual  energy  than  the  immeasurable  melancholy 
of  the  chant  of  Empedocles,  in  that  poem  the  reprint 
of  which  Arnold  dedicated  to  Browning  because  it 
had  found  such  favour  in  his  eyes. 

In  each  case  the  new  wine  of  the  nineteenth 
century  is  poured  into  the  old  bottles  of  forgotten 
philosophies.  In  each  case  the  problem  faced  is  that 
of  man's  ignorance  concerning  his  destiny,  and  con- 
cerning the  hindrances  and  defilements  of  his  earthly 
existence.  In  each  case  a  knowledge  and  authority 
above  the  knowledge  and  authority  of  man  is  recog- 
nised with  deference. 

But  the  Greek,  beholding  from  his  lonely  mountain 
the  panorama  of  the  natural  world  and  the  littleness 
of  men  passing  to  and  fro,  sees  things  as  they  are  to 
the  keenly  sceptical  vision.  Not  truth  as  he  wants  it 
to  be,  not  more  sincerity  of  intention,  is  sufficient  to 
him.  Again  and  again  he  sifts  his  intuitions  and 
weighs  them  against  his  observations  to  the  end  that 

'  See  Berdoe's  Browning  Encyclopedia 


128  drowning. 

he  may  regulate  his  conduct  by  the  most  exact 
standard  of  pure  morality. 

No  eye  could  be  too  sound 

To  observe  a  world  so  vast, 
No  patience  too  profound 

To  sort  what 's  here  amass'd  ; 
How  man  may  here  best  live  no  care  too  great  to  explore. 

Thus  looking  hard  and  patiently  he  sees  the 
changeless  factors  of  tragedy,  the  perpetual  weak- 
ness, and  folly,  and  contradiction  of  human  nature  ; 
the  obstinate  desire  for  bliss,  the  obstinate  or  blind 
refusal  to  do  that  which  will  gain  it,  the  dependence 
upon  chance,  the  rebellion  against  punishment,  the 
struggle  we  make  to  baffle  our  own  prayers.  What 
delusion  in  the  cold  light  of  this  insight  seems  the 
rapturous  conviction  of  the  Rabbi !  — 

All  I  could  never  be, 

All,  men  ignored  in  me. 

This  I  was  worth  to  God  whose  wheel  the  pitcher  shaped. 

Yet  there  is  close  analogy  between  parts  of  the 
two  poems.  ''Pleasant  is  this  flesh,"  declares  Ben 
Ezra : 

Let  us  not  always  say, 

"Spite  of  this  flesh  to-day 
I  strove,  made  head,  gained  ground  upon  the  whole  ! " 

As  the  bird  wings  and  sings. 

Let  us  cry,  "All  good  things 
Are  ours,  nor  soul  helps  flesh  more,  now,  than  flesh  helps  soul!  " 

And  from  his  detached  standpoint  Empedocles 
also  perceives  that  life  may  yield  something  more 


Stbical  ZTeacbing.  129 

than  moderate  return  to  those  who  bow  to  what 
they  cannot  break.    After  all  is  said, 

Is  it  so  small  a  thing 

To  have  enjoy'd  the  sun, 
To  have  lived  light  in  the  spring, 

To  have  loved,  to  have  thought,  to  have  done  ; 
To  have  advanced  true  friends,  and  beat  down  baffling  foes — 
That  we  must  feign  a  bliss 

Of  doubtful  future  date. 
And,  while  we  dream  on  this. 

Lose  all  our  present  state. 
And  relegate  to  worlds  yet  distant  our  repose  ? 

Rabbi  ben  E:(ra  belongs  to  the  group  of  poems 
published  in  1864,  bearing  the  title  Dramatis  Per- 
sonce.  Six  years  before  that  Quaritch  had  printed 
FitzGerald's  translation  of  Omar  Khayyam,  copies  of 
which  promptly  found  their  way  to  the  hands  of 
Swinburne  and  Rossetti.  That  Browning,  living  in 
Italy,  and  finding  "considerable  difficulty  in  getting 
books,"  ran  across  the  anonymous  little  volume  is  at 
least  improbable.^  Thus  his  use  of  the  biblical  met- 
aphor— the  relation  of  the  clay  and  the  potter  sym- 
bolising the  relation  of  man  to  his  Maker — was, 
probably,  due  solely  to  the  natural  choice  of  symbols 
familiar  to  one  who  like  Ben  Ezra  was  an  expert  in 
biblical  exegesis. 

There  is  nevertheless  an  interesting  similarity  be- 
tween Omar's  glowing  apostrophe  to  the  jocund 
grape  whose  juice  may  fill  the  cup  that  crumbles 
into  dust,  and  the  Rabbi's  exhortation: 

'  As  Browning  knew  Rossetti  at  this  time  and  letters  passed  between  them, 
it  is  of  course  possible  that  through  Rossetti  FitzGerald's  book  may  have  reached 
him. 
9 


I30  Browning. 

Look  not  thou  down  but  up ! 

To  uses  of  a  cup, 
The  festal  board,  lamp's  flash,  and  trumpets'  peal, 

The  new  wine's  foaming  flow. 

The  Master's  lips  aglow  ! 
Thou,  heaven's  consummate  cup,  what  need'st  thou  with  earth's 
wheel  ? 

And   the    divergence    between    the    tone    of   the 
Rabbi's  mind  toward  him 

Who  fixed  thee  'mid  this  dance 
Of  plastic  circumstance, 

and  that  of  Omar,  watching 

the  game  he  plays 
Upon  this  Checker-board  of  Nights  and  Days, 

is  even  more  interesting  and  suggestive. 

In  Browning's  adaptation  of  Ben  Ezra's  passionate 
religion  of  hopefulness,  the  mood  is  that  of  venera- 
tion :  how  should  the  human  creature  desire  more 
than  to  fulfil  the  plan  of  the  Creator,  or  venture  to 
pass  judgment  upon  the  divine  arrangement  of  a 
puzzling  system  involving  momentous  difficulties  ? 

In  the  Rubai'iyyat  we  find  Ben  Ezra's  appreciation 
of  Epicurean  pleasures,— this  ''  rose-mesh  "  of  earthly 
interests  in  which  we  are  entangled, — and  we  find 
also  his  contempt  of  the  notion  that  a  Creator  will 
arbitrarily  condemn  his  own  creations  : 

What !  out  of  senseless  Nothing  to  provoke 
A  conscious  Something  to  resent  the  yoke 

Of  unpermitted  Pleasure,  under  pain 
Of  Everlasting  Penalties  if  broke  ! 

But  we  find  not  the  slightest  indication  of  that  re- 


Robert  Lowe,  Lord  Sherbrooke. 


lEtbical  ZTeacbing.  131 

verent  humility,  that  worshipping  love  of  the  inferior 
for  the  superior  nature  and  intelligence,  with  which 
the  Hebrew  is  inspired.  We  find  in  place  of  it  the  tre- 
mendous assumption  of  equal  rights  between  man  and 
God,  the  pride  of  fellowship  that  puts  into  the  mouth 
of  the  Persian  these  words  of  unsurpassed  audacity  : 

Oh  Thou,  who  Man  of  baser  Earth  didst  make 
And  ev'n  with  Paradise  devise  the  Snake  : 

For  all  the  Sin  wherewith  the  Face  of  Man 
Is  blacken'd — Man's  Forgiveness  give — and  take  ! 

This  pessimistic  view,  rendered  by  FitzGerald 
with  Celtic  sensibility,  spread  among  the  minds  ready 
to  receive  it  as  the  ink  of  the  cuttlefish  upon  the 
restless  waters.  Browning's  influence  was  in  pre- 
cisely the  opposite  direction. 

It  would  be  a  very  superficial  reading  of  the  needs 
of  this  period  of  human  development  that  discovered 
in  his  ethical  message  no  tonic  for  a  certain  valetud- 
inarian habit  that  prevails  among  the  great  army  of 
half-thinkers.  His  invariable  premise  that  life  is 
worth  while,  his  enthusiastic  submission  to  discipline 
(in  everything  but  his  own  art),  his  sincerity  of  con- 
viction, and,  more  than  anything  else,  his  apprehen- 
sion of  what  is  meant  by  the  "  solidarity  of  man,"  his 
almost  universal  and  unpatronising  sympathy  with 
the  many  forms  taken  by  humanity,  most  of  them 
ugly  to  the  view, — all  these  qualities  of  his  mind  tend 
to  counteract  the  feebleness  of  those  who  waste 
themselves  in  regret  that  the  "  Sea  of  faith  "  is  in- 
deed retreating  from  the  shore  on  which  we  are. 


132  Browning. 

Certain  critics  have  found  defect  of  this  quality 
in  the  sentimentalism  with  which  he  has  been  not 
unjustly  accused.  If  sentimentalism  is  false  senti- 
ment, there  is,  perhaps,  a  hint  of  it  in  his  invariable 
tenderness  toward  the  sinner  despised  and  rejected 
of  men.  There  is  a  measure  of  danger  in  pity  so 
profound  for  misfortunes  the  root  of  which  is  fre- 
quently to  be  discovered  in  a  vacillating  will  or  in 
sophistication  of  the  moral  sense. 

It  is  stimulating,  certainly,  to  assume  that  by  our 
failures  we  may  rise  to  ultimate  success ;  but  the 
peril  of  such  doctrine  to  all  but  the  clearest  thinkers 
lies  in  the  further  assumption  that  we  cannot  through 
any  failure  sink  "  and  be  astray  for  ever." 

The  errant  gentleman  in  Fifiiie  at  the  Fair,  who 
understands  the  value  of  a  lie,  and  attains 

To  read 
The  signs  aright,  and  learn  by  failure,  truth  is  forced 
To  manifest  itself  through  falsehood, 

is  at  the  mercy  of  his  education,  and  not  very  close 
to  morality  at  the  end  of  his  term.  But  it  was  not 
Browning's  aim  to  serve  those  who  cannot  for  them- 
selves distinguish  between  the  true  and  the  false. 
His  occasional  excursions  into  other  minds  than  those 
of  his  own  type,  his  skill  in  playing  for  the  moment 
devil's  advocate  and  presenting  arguments  entirely 
out  of  harmony  with  his  convictions,  make  him  a 
guide  of  the  most  puzzling  and  dangerous  sort  for 
readers  who  do  not  possess  his  own  combination  of 
sturdy  morality  and  flexible  intelligence.     For  others 


jetblcal  ZTeacbing.  133 

such  persuasive  sophistry  as  flows  from  the  lips  of 
Bishop  Blougram,  for  example,  the  ''arbitrary,  acci- 
dental thoughts  "  which  he  chooses  to  represent  as 
fixtures  in  his  mind,  are  merely  masterly  foils  to  the 
simple,  straightforward  spiritual  quality  of  Ben  Ezra's 
communing  with  his  God,  or  Abt  Vogler's  triumphant 
affirmation  of  faith. 

The  difficulty  of  defining  Browning's  positive  mes- 
sage is  increased  for  the  ingenious  commentator, 
whose  ingenuity  frequently  exhausts  itself  on  the 
most  pellucid  passages,  by  his  habit  of  crowding 
his  own  beliefs  into  the  same  frame  with  those  of 
his  invented  characters.  For  example  no  one 
doubts  that  he  speaks  his  inmost  persuasion  in  the 
courageous  philosophy  of  Easter  Day : 

And  so  I  live,  you  see  ; 
Go  through  the  world,  try,  prove,  reject, 
Prefer,  still  struggling,  to  effect 
My  warfare  ;  happy  that  I  can 
Be  crossed  and  thwarted  as  a  man, 
Not  left  in  God's  contempt  apart, 
With  ghastly  smooth  life,  dead  at  heart, 
Tame  in  earth's  paddock  as  her  prize. 

Yet  he  puts  the  same  theory  into  the  words  of  the 
astute,  temporising,  insincere  Bishop  : 

No,  when  the  fight  begins  within  himself 

A  man  's  worth  something.     God  stoops  o'er  his  head, 

Satan  looks  up  between  his  feet — both  tug — 

He  's  left,  himself,  i '  the  middle  ;  the  soul  wakes 

And  grows. 

This  complex  element  in  occurs  almost  all  the 
poems  supposed  to  express  opinions  of  personages 


134  Browning. 

entirely  removed  from  Browning's  essential  sym- 
pathy, notably  in  Fifine  at  the  Fair,  the  hero  of  which 
is  a  Molieresque  Don  juan,  and  the  most  plausible 
of  rascals.  Such  adroitness  in  assuming  equivocal 
states  of  mind  is  a  peculiar  characteristic  of  Brown- 
ing's genius,  and  one  that  grew  with  his  increasing 
interest  in  ''the  dangerous  side  of  things,"  his  pene- 
trating, imaginative  observance  of 

The  honest  thief,  the  tender  murderer, 
The  superstitious  atheist, 

who  with  difficulty  keep  their  equilibrium  on  the 
giddy  line  between  decency  and  dishonour.  And 
sympathetic  readers  who  distrust  a  vision  that  per- 
ceives only  the  one  side,  dark  or  light,  of  a  moral 
question,  are  distinctly  heartened  by  this  range  and 
variety  of  intellectual  comprehension.  The  positive 
conviction  which  they  can  easily  identify  as  Brown- 
ing's own — the  conviction  that  humanity's  progress 
is  regulated  by  a  power  that  makes  for  righteous- 
ness through  evil  as  well  as  through  good — is 
infinitely  more  acceptable  to  them  because  it  is 
advanced  in  the  full  light  of  interesting  and  potent 
fallacies. 

To  the  purely  pessimistic  nature  under  the  infiu- 
ence  of  an  abiding  sense  of  the  misery  and  incongruity 
of  life,  Browning  is  not,  however,  a  leader  to  arouse 
enthusiasm.  His  vigorous  and  reiterated  confidence 
in  the  intelligence  of  our  Creator  cannot  be  reconciled 
to  the  mood  of  one  who  asks  with  Hardy, 


letbical  ITeacbing,  135 

Has  some  Vast  Imbecility, 

Mighty  to  build  and  blend. 

But  impotent  to  tend, 
Framed  us  in  jest,  and  left  us  now  to  hazardry  ? 

or  groans  with  Omar, 

Ah  Love  !  could  yoii  and  I  with  Him  conspire 
To  grasp  this  sorry  Scheme  of  Things  entire, 
Would  not  we  shatter  it  to  bits — and  then 
Re-mould  it  nearer  to  the  Heart's  Desire  ! 

This  class  of  minds  may  seek  refuge  in  the 
poetry  of  Arnold,  or  even  of  Wordsworth,  where  the 
pagan  serenity  of  the  natural  world  is  permitted  to 
invade  the  mind,  and  rescue  it  from  its  "struggling, 
task'd  morality,"  but  they  find  in  Browning's  robust 
scorn  of  melancholy  an  irritating  quality.  The 
blaze  of  his  optimism  is  blinding  and  painful  to  eyes 
sick  with  gazing  at  men  and  women  placed  here 

as  on  a  darkling  plain 
Swept  with  confused  alarms  of  struggle  and  flight. 
Where  ignorant  armies  clash  by  night. 

What  Mr.  Mortimer  calls  the  "transcendental 
conclusion  "  to  his  intricate  processes  of  thought, 
the  inevitable  arrival  of  his  hopeful  temperament  at 
the  point  from  which  he  sees  a  vision  of  heaven  in 
which  the  "broken  arcs"  have  met  in  a  "perfect 
round,"  fails  to  invite  those  Spartans  who  meet  death 
upright,  with  the  beast  of  despair  gnawing  their  flesh 
beneath  the  cloak  of  dignified  philosophy. 

The  congregation  to  which  he  speaks  most  con- 
vincingly is  a  congregation  comprising  Christians, 


136  Browning, 

and  those  who  do  not  call  themselves  Christians  but 
believe  with  Blougram  that  if  you  desire  faith  then 
you  've  faith  enough.  The  Dean  of  Canterbury  has 
summed  up  the  main  lessons  of  his  life  and  poetry,  in 
a  passage  that  demonstrates  how  little  revolutionary 
is  the  real  teaching  found  beneath  that  tumultuous, 
immoderate  manner,  sometimes  so  deceptive  in  its 
frankness: 

"Live  out  truly,  nobly,  bravely,  wisely,  happily, 
your  human  life  as  a  human  life;  not  as  a  super- 
natural life,  for  you  are  a  man,  and  not  an  angel ;  not 
as  a  sensual  life,  for  you  are  a  man,  and  not  a  brute  ; 
not  as  a  wicked  life,  for  you  are  a  man,  and  not 
a  demon  ;  not  as  a  frivolous  life,  for  you  are  a  man, 
and  not  an  insect.  Live  each  day  the  true  life  of  a 
man  to-day  ;  not  yesterday's  life  only,  lest  you  be- 
come a  murmurer ;  not  to-morrow's  life  only,  lest 
you  become  a  visionary  ;  but  the  life  of  happy  yester- 
days and  confident  to-morrows — the  life  of  to-day 
un  wounded  by  the  Parthian  arrows  of  yesterday,  and 
undarkened  by  the  possible  cloudland  of  to-morrow. 
Life  is  indeed  a  mystery  ;  but  it  was  God  who  gave 
it,  in  a  world  '  wrapped  round  with  sweet  air,  and 
bathed  in  sunshine,  and  abounding  with  knowledge '; 
and  a  ray  of  eternal  light  falls  upon  it  even  here,  and 
that  light  shall  wholly  transfigure  it  beyond  the 
grave." 

This  fairly  represents  the  effect  of  Browning's 
ethical  teaching  upon  a  mind  belonging  to  the  house- 
hold of  Faith.    A  more  startling  indication  of  his 


letbical  Eeacbing.  137 

conformity  with  traditional  belief  is  found  in  Cardinal 
Wiseman's  review  of  Men  and  Women  {\^^6) .  Though 
much  of  the  matter  in  these  poems  is  ''  extremely 
offensive  "  to  Catholics,  he  says,  ''yet  beneath  the 
surface  there  is  an  undercurrent  of  thought  that  is  by 
no  means  inconsistent  with  our  religion  ;  and  if  Mr. 
Browning  is  a  man  of  will  and  action,  and  not  a  mere 
dreamer  and  talker,  we  should  never  feel  surprise  at 
his  conversion."  And  Mr.  Churton  Collins,  in  his 
review  of  Dr.  Berdoe's  book  on  Browning  and  the 
Christian  Faith,  makes  the  same  suggestion,  after 
tracing  Browning's  indebtedness  to  Lessing  for  his 
theory  of  ''a  progressive  revelation  keeping  pace 
with  and  aiding  man's  spiritual  and  moral  progress." 
"It  is  contended,"  says  Mr.  Collins,  ''that  in  La 
Saisia^  Browning  speaks  immediately  in  his  own 
person,  and  that  the  result  arrived  at  in  La  Saisia:(  is 
pure  Deism.  My  own  impression  of  this  poem  is 
that  it  presents  an  exact  parallel  to  Montaigne's 
Apologie  de  Raimond  Sehond.  It  simply  demon- 
strates the  futility  of  human  reason  when  attempting 
to  grapple  with  problems  insoluble  by  reason.  It  is, 
like  Montaigne's  Essay,  a  conclusive  and  unanswer- 
able demonstration  of  the  necessity  of  revelation  if 
man  is  to  be  assured  of  what  he  desires,  and  to  have 
that  veil  raised  which  otherwise  death,  and  death 
only,  can  withdraw.  As  the  next  step  to  the  posi- 
tion assumed  by  Dryden  in  his  Religio  Laid  was  the 
step  he  actually  took — namely,  the  adoption  of  the 
Creed  of  Rome — so  I  contend  the  logical  sequence 


138  Browning. 

of  the  position  assumed  in  La  Saisia:{  would  be  to 
take  precisely  the  same  step." 

Beneath  Browning's  Christianity,  however,  be- 
neath his  concern  for  morality  and  for  the  problems 
of  the  ''  buried  life,"  we  find  the  source  of  his  charm 
for  diverse  temperaments,  the  secret  of  his  appeal  to 
this  century  which  has  followed  so  many  teachers 
and  has  outworn  so  many  creeds.  An  inexhaustible 
spring  of  youthfulness  is  at  the  heart  of  his  philo- 
sophies, an  elasticity  of  soul  that  penetrates  even  the 
prolixity  of  his  most  tedious  arguments,  and  makes 
his  lyric  poems  enchanting.    The  prayer  of  Stagirius, 

From  that  torpor  deep 
Wherein  we  lie  asleep, 
Heavy  as  death,  cold  as  the  grave, 
Save,  oh  !  save, 

is  answered  by  his  morning  vigour  of  unsated  inter- 
est. He  teaches  the  supreme  lesson  of  energy  in  living 
to  a  generation  that  inclines  to  the  dilettante  side.  Mat- 
thew Arnold  withdrew  his  Empedocles  on  Etna  from 
circulation  because  it  belonged  to  the  class  of  poems 
that  represented  morbid  situations  in  which  there  was 
"  everything  to  be  endured,  nothing  to  be  done, "in 
which  suffering  finds  no  vent  in  action,  and  a  ' '  contin- 
uous state  of  mental  distress  is  prolonged,  unrelieved 
by  incident,  hope,  or  resistance."  No  poem  that 
Browning  ever  wrote  could  be  included  in  that  class. 
*'  Strive  and  thrive  "  is  his  password,  and  because  he 
is  so  filled  with  the  spirit  that  quickens,  the  spur  of 
his  ethical  teaching  is  heeded  by  a  languid  race  of  men. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 
ITALY. 

THERE  are  signs  of  the  German  strain  in  Brown- 
ing. His  mysticism,  his  fondness  for  Hegelian 
philosophising,  his  attitude  of  interrogation, 
his  interest  in  speculative  science ;  those  amazingly 
constructed  sentences  of  his,  and  his  contributions  to 
the  current  English  vocabulary — these  are  reminders 
of  his  German  grandfather.  Goethe  said:  "The 
artist  must  work  from  within  outwards,  seeing  that, 
make  what  contortions  he  will,  he  can  only  bring  to 
light  his  own  individuality."  In  a  sense,  it  is  by  his 
'* contortions"  that  the  German  part  of  Browning's 
individuality  is  brought  to  light.  But  another  strain, 
mingling  with  the  German,  modifying  and,  on  the 
whole,  dominating  it,  may  have  come  from  the 
Creole  ancestress,  Margaret  Tittle.  To  this  source  it 
is  tempting  to  trace  his  impulsiveness  and  versatility, 
checking  his  faculty  of  logical  ratiocination  just  short 
of  maturity,  making  him  in  truth  more  of  a  poet  than 
a  philosopher,  and  lending  him  potent  affinities  with 
Italy  and  the  Southern  races. 

In  his  work,  not  only  the  style  and  the  temper  but 
139 


HO  :S5rownlng. 

the  choice  of  subjects  show  these  contrasting  ten- 
dencies. Italy,  naturally  enough,  filled  his  thoughts 
during  his  fifteen  years  of  life  in  Florence;  but  also  it 
was  an  Italian  theme  he  took  for  his  first  long  meta- 
physical poem,  and  another  for  the  most  charming 
and  individual  of  his  descriptive  poems,  and  still 
another  for  the  play,  King  Victor  and  King  Charles, 
when  he  had  made  but  one  brief  and  almost  un- 
recorded visit  to  Italy.  Sordello  is  evolved  against 
the  background  of  Italian  history  in  the  Middle  Ages  ; 
Pippa  passes  gayly  through  the  little  hill-town  of 
Asolo  ;  in  both  the  fascination  of  the  mediaeval  mem- 
ories is  strong  upon  the  mind  of  the  poet.  Before 
either  of  these  was  written,  however,  he  had  earn- 
estly interpreted  the  aspirations  of  a  German  physician 
and  reformer,  and  all  through  his  work  we  find  him 
turning  from  Lippo  Lippi  and  Andrea  del  Sarto  to  Abt 
Vogler  of  Wurzburg  and  Fust  of  Mayence  ;  from  Gal- 
uppi  to  Master  Hugues ;  from  Bishop  Blougram  to 
Johannes  Agricola  ;  from  Pietro  of  Albano  to  Bernard 
de  Mandeville. 

Finally  Italy  claimed  him,  though  not  the  Italy  of 
which  his  wife  has  written,  whose  birth  she  wit- 
nessed and  to  whose  happy  growth  she  so  ardently 
looked  forward.  Not  modern  Italy  enticed  and  fas- 
cinated him,  but  the  Italy  of  the  Middle  Ages  and  the 
dawning  Renaissance  ;  and  not  the  country  or  its 
people  so  much  as  their  condition, — more  corrupt, 
insincere,  ambitious,  and  quarrelsome  than  any  with 
whose  details  we  are  equally  well  acquainted.    Here 


lltal^.  141 

he  studied  the  low,  confused,  intricate,  and  always 
infinitely  interesting  common  life,  the  daily  circum- 
stance of  Florence  and  Rome  and  Mantua.  The 
types  he  chooses  are  not  the  men  of  high  genius 
and  austere  virtue,  who,  like  Dante  and  Savonarola 
and  Michelangelo,  reflect  the  literary  and  artistic  and 
moral  splendour  of  the  new  era  at  their  highest.  He 
portrays  for  us  a  Renaissance  bishop  who  loves  lux- 
ury and  art  and  precedence  over  his  fellows ;  a  mad 
fanatic,  stirring  the  brands  of  socialism  in  a  time 
of  famine  ;  a  painter  monk  climbing  from  his  window 
to  seek  in  dissolute  nights  relief  from  arduous  days  ; 
a  greedy  alchemist  of  Padua  feeding  fat  on  the  super- 
stitions of  his  time.  In  Liiria  we  see  the  boundless 
perfidy,  insolence,  love  of  gain,  the  bitter  hatred, 
jealousy,  mistrust,  envy,  that  marked  the  petty  but 
cruel  wars  continually  flaming  from  the  crevices 
of  the  loose  political  structure  of  Italy  in  the  fifteenth 
century.  In  Sordello  we  see  the  "lady  city  "  and  the 
bravo  and  mercenary  whose  name  is  translated 
''  Dash-into-fight,"  the  chief  figure  in  the  contest  that 
is  waged  for  possession  of  her  by  Guelph  and  Ghib- 
belline,  with  misery  and  carnage. 

In  The  Ring  and  the  Book  the  period  is  moved 
forward  to  the  close  of  the  seventeenth  century,  but 
the  society  is  still  much  the  same  as  is  described  in 
the  tales  of  Boccaccio,  in  which  passion,  sensuality, 
and  vice,  petty  or  grand,  are  the  topics  with  which 
refugees  from  death  by  plague  beguile  their  empty 
hours.    Browning  had  the  story  from  an  "old square 


142  Browning. 

yellow  book,  part  print,  part  manuscript, "purchased 
for  eight  pence  at  a  booth  in  the  Square  of  San  Lorenzo 
in  Florence,  in  1865.  It  so  fascinated  him  that  he  read 
it  through  the  day  he  bought  it,  and  considered  it  for 
nearly  four  years,  when  there  flowed  from  it  the 
ambitious  and  original  poem  in  which  the  murder 
case  is  reproduced  from  every  point  of  view.  De- 
spite the  great  beauty  of  certain  portions,  and  the 
chivalrous  and  noble  defence  of  the  wronged  child, 
Pompilia,  the  whole  unutterably  vulgar  tragedy  be- 
longs to  the  bad  days  of  Italy,  when  crime  alone 
seemed  universally  interesting. 

John  Ruskin,  in  his  Modern  Painters,  has  an  elo- 
quent passage,  in  which  he  pays  a  tribute  to  Brown- 
ing's power  of  reconstructing  the  past,  not  always, 
certainly,  precisely  as  it  was,  but  always  vividly  and, 
in  his  later  poems,  with  the  various  elements  fused  into 
an  effective  whole.  The  criticism  is  at  once  so  char- 
acteristic of  its  author  and  so  true  of  its  subject,  that 
it  may  not  be  curtailed.  Shakespeare,  Ruskin  says, 
saw  with  the  eyes  of  the  sixteenth  and  not  with  those 
of  the  thirteenth  century,  and  was  content  to  paint 
nothing  but  what  he  saw.  ' '  How  far  in  these  modern 
days  emptied  of  splendour, "  he  continues,  ' '  it  may  be 
necessary  for  great  men  having  certain  sympathies  for 
those  earlier  ages,  to  act  in  this  differently  from  all 
their  predecessors  ;  and  how  far  they  may  succeed  in 
the  resuscitation  of  the  past  by  habitually  dwelling  in 
all  their  thoughts  among  vanished  generations,  are 
questions,  of  all  practical  and  present  ones  concerning 


Utal^.  143 

art,  the  most  difficult  to  decide  :  for  already  in  poetry 
several  of  our  truest  men  have  set  themselves  to  this 
task,  and  have  indeed  put  more  vitality  into  the 
shadows  of  the  dead  than  most  others  can  give  the 
presence  of  the  living.  Thus  Longfellow,  in  The 
Golden  Legend,  has  entered  more  closely  into  the 
temper  of  the  Monk,  for  good  and  for  evil,  than  ever 
yet  theological  writer  or  historian,  though  they  may 
have  given  their  life's  labour  to  the  analysis ;  and, 
again,  Robert  Browning  is  unerring  in  every  sentence 
he  writes  of  the  Middle  Ages ;  always  vital,  right, 
and  profound ;  so  that  in  the  matter  of  art,  with 
which  we  have  been  specially  concerned,  there  is 
hardly  a  principle  connected  with  the  mediaeval  tem- 
per that  he  has  not  struck  upon  in  those  seemingly 
careless  and  too  rugged  rhymes  of  his.  There  is  a 
curious  instance,  by  the  way,  in  a  short  poem  refer- 
ring to  this  very  subject  of  tomb  and  image  sculpture 
(previously  discussed),  and  illustrating  just  one  of 
those  phases  of  local  human  character  which,  though 
belonging  to  Shakespeare's  own  age,  he  never 
noticed,  because  it  was  specially  Italian  and  un- 
English  ;  connected  also  closely  with  the  influence  of 
mountains  on  the  heart,  and  therefore  with  our  im- 
mediate inquiries.  1  mean  the  kind  of  admiration 
with  which  a  Southern  artist  regarded  the  stone  he 
worked  in  ;  and  the  pride  which  populace  or  priest 
took  in  possession  of  precious  mountain  substance, 
worked  into  the  pavements  of  their  cathedrals  and 
the  shafts  of  their  tombs. 


144  Browning. 

*'  Observe,  Shakespeare,  in  the  midst  of  architect- 
ure and  tombs  of  wood  or  freestone  or  brass,  natur- 
ally thinks  of  gold  as  the  best  enriching  and  ennobling 
substance  for  them  : — in  the  midst  also  of  the  fever 
of  the  Renaissance  he  writes,  as  everyone  else  did, 
in  praise  of  precisely  the  most  vicious  master  of  that 
school — Giulio  Romano  ;  but  the  modern  poet,  living 
much  in  Italy,  and  quit  of  the  Renaissance  influence, 
is  able  fully  to  enter  into  the  Italian  feeling  and  to  see 
the  evil  of  the  Renaissance  tendency,  not  because  he 
is  greater  than  Shakespeare,  but  because  he  is  in 
another  element  and  has  seen  other  things.  I  miss 
fragments  here  and  there  not  needed  for  my  purpose 
in  the  passage  quoted,  without  putting  asterisks,  for 
I  weaken  the  poem  enough  by  the  omissions,  without 
spoiling  it  also  by  breaks. 

THE    BISHOP    ORDERS    HIS    TOMB     IN    ST.    PRAXED'S 
CHURCH 

As  here  I  lie 
In  this  state  chamber,  dying  by  degrees, 
Hours,  and  long  hours,  in  the  dead  night,  I  ask, 
Do  I  live — am  I  dead  ?     Peace,  peace,  seems  all. 
St.  Praxed's  ever  was  the  church  of  peace 
And  so,  about  this  tomb  of  mine,  I  fought 
With  tooth  and  nail  to  save  my  niche,  ye  know  ; 
Old  Gandolf  cozened  me,  despite  my  care. 
Shrewd  was  that  snatch  from  out  the  corner  south 
He  graced  his  carrion  with. 
Yet  still  my  niche  is  not  so  cramped  but  thence 
One  sees  the  pulpit  o'  the  epistle  side, 
And  somewhat  of  the  choir,  those  silent  seats, 
And  up  into  the  airy  dome  where  live 


Iltali?.  145 

The  angels,  and  a  sunbeam  's  sure  to  lurk. 

And  I  shall  fill  my  slab  of  basalt  there, 

And  'neath  my  tabernacle  take  my  rest, 

With  those  nine  columns  round  me,  two  and  two. 

The  odd  one  at  my  feet,  where  Anselm  stands  ; 

Peach-blossom  marble  all. 

Swift  as  a  weaver's  shuttle  fleet  our  years  ; 

Man  goeth  to  the  grave,  and  where  is  he  ? 

Did  I  say  basalt  for  my  slab,  sons  ?    Black — 

'Twas  ever  antique-black  1  meant  !     How  else 

Shall  ye  contrast  my  frieze  to  come  beneath  ? 

The  bas-relief  in  bronze  ye  promised  me, 

Those  Pans  and  Nymphs  ye  wot  of,  and  perchance 

Some  tripod,  thyrsus,  with  a  vase  or  so, 

The  Saviour  at  his  Sermon  on  the  Mount, 

St.  Praxed  in  a  glory,  and  one  Pan, 

And  Moses  with  the  tables  .  .  .  but  1  know 

Ye  mark  me  not  !    What  do  they  whisper  thee, 

Child  of  my  bowels,  Anselm  ?    Ah,  ye  hope 

To  revel  down  my  villas  while  I  gasp. 

Bricked  o'er  with  beggar's  mouldy  travertine. 

Which  Gandolf  from  his  tomb-top  chuckles  at  ! 

Nay,  boys,  ye  love  me — all  of  jasper,  then  ! 

There  's  plenty  jasper  somewhere  in  the  world — 

And  have  1  not  St.  Praxed's  ear  to  pray 

Horses  for  ye,  and  brown  Greek  manuscripts  ? 

That 's  if  ye  carve  my  epitaph  aright. 

Choice  Latin,  picked  phrase,  Tully's  every  word, 

No  gaudy  ware  like  Gandolf's  second  line — 

Tully,  my  master  ?     Ulpian  serves  his  need. 

"  I  know  no  other  piece  of  modern  English,  prose 
or  poetry,  in  which  there  is  so  much  told  as  in  these 
lines,  of  the  Renaissance  spirit, — its  worldliness,  in- 
consistency, pride,  hypocrisy,  ignorance  of  itself,  love 
of  art,  of  luxury,  and  of  good  Latin.  It  is  nearly 
all  that  I  said  of  the  central  Renaissance  in  thirty 
pages  of  the  Stones  of  J/enice  put  into  as  many  lines, 


146  Browning. 

Browning's  being  also  the  antecedent  work.  The 
worst  of  it  is  that  this  kind  of  concentrated  writing 
needs  so  much  solution  before  the  reader  can  fairly 
get  the  good  of  it,  that  people's  patience  fails  them, 
and  they  give  the  thing  up  as  insoluble  ;  though 
truly,  it  ought  to  be  the  current  of  common  thought, 
like  Saladin's  talisman  dipped  in  clear  water,  not 
soluble  altogether  but  making  the  element  med- 
icinal." 

In  the  humbler  type  of  Italian  mind  Browning  had, 
however,  little  interest ;  and  a  Catholic,  writing  after 
his  death,  wonders  that  ''a  man  of  his  intelligence 
and  inquisitiveness  could  have  lived  his  days  without 
ever  noticing  the  flowers  of  Catholic  piety  that  must 
have  bloomed  in  every  village  in  Italy."  Pippa  is  the 
only  character  he  has  drawn  in  which  simplicity  and 
faith  are  conspicuous,  and  give  the  impression  of  re- 
ligious purity. 

In  just  one  of  his  ''  important "  later  poems,  if  we 
may  thus  call  the  products  of  his  greatest  rather  than 
his  most  successful  effort,  he  touches  modern  Italy 
and  the  panorama  of  events  unrolling  itself  under  the 
windows  of  Casa  Guidi. 

The  Prince  of  Hohenstiel-Schwangau  claims  con- 
nection with  Italy  because  the  Emperor  Napoleon  III., 
for  whom  the  Prince  is  a  rather  clumsy  symbol,  was 
most  vividly  associated  in  the  mind  and  life  of  Brown- 
ing with  Italy.  By  Browning's  own  profession,  this 
tangled  soliloquy  was  intended  to  be  the  apologie  the 
Emperor,  on  the  eve  of  Sedan,  would  have  offered  of 


i 


Church  of  the  Salute,   Venice. 


Utal^.  147 

his  twenty  years  of  rule  in  France  and  attempted  in- 
fluence over  the  fortunes  of  Europe. 

As  an  argument  it  is  extremely  interesting,  but  the 
reader  of  to-day,  who  already  stands  a  little  detached 
from  the  history  of  the  century's  middle  years,  is 
likely  to  get  from  it  more  light  on  the  mind  of  the  poet 
than  on  that  of  the  Nineteenth-Century  C^sar.  An 
imagination  so  fertile  and  nimble,  so  pliant  and  pene- 
trating, and  yet  so  erratic  as  Browning's  found  fascin- 
ating exercise  in  seeking  to  realise  the  aspirations  of 
a  mind  so  obscure,  contradictory,  and  elusive  as  that 
of  Louis  Napoleon. 

The  task  was  undertaken  while  the  spell  of  deep 
excitement  attending  the  appalling  collapse  of  the 
Empire  under  the  fierce,  long-prepared  onset  of  Prus- 
sia rested  upon  the  poet.  It  is  the  more  remarkable 
that  at  this  moment  he  sought  the  key  to  the  Emper- 
or's picture  of  his  own  mind  chiefly  in  the  dreams  or 
professed  dreams  of  the  exile  of  Leicester  Square  and 
the  prisoner  of  the  fortress  of  Ham.  In  applying  this 
key,  it  was  almost  necessary  to  ignore  the  means  by 
which  power  was  got  and  retained,  and  particularly 
the  all-pervading,  systematic  corruption  which  made 
the  sway  of  Imperialism  irresistible  in  France,  but  so 
rattled  the  Empire  that  it  was  shattered  like  a  hollow 
shell  at  the  first  impact  of  solid  Germany. 

This  sacrifice  of  essential  and  controlling  fact 
to  the  unity  of  conception  is  especially  noteworthy 
in  Browning,  whom  the  blighting  immorality  of  the 
Empire  could  hardly  have  escaped  and  must  have 


148  Browning. 

incensed.  The  sacrifice  once  made,  however,  noth- 
ing could  be  more  ingenious  than  the  development  of 
the  remaining  theme.  It  is,  of  course,  much  too 
ingenious,  for  the  characteristic  of  Napoleon's  mind 
as  it  manifested  itself  in  the  early  years,  was  vague- 
ness rather  than  complexity,  while  its  subtlety  and 
elusiveness  were  rather  those  of  calculated  sophistry 
than  of  overrefined  analysis.  The  sick  and  failing 
Emperor,  at  the  moment  chosen  by  Browning,  con- 
templating dubiously,  in  the  shadow  of  the  coming 
gloom,  the  rise  of  the  republican  spirit  in  France  and 
the  swift  gathering  strength  of  his  born  foe  beyond 
the  Rhine,  would  have  made  an  explanation  of  his 
career  much  less  intricate  and  more  plausible 
than  the  poet  constructed  for  him.  And,  as  we  have 
suggested,  it  is  the  poet,  not  the  imperial  adventurer, 
whose  mind  is  revealed  in  the  Prince  of  Hohenstiel- 
Schwangau.  The  revelation,  if  one  has  the  patience 
to  master  it  so  far  as  may  be  —  which  is  far  from 
completely — repays  the  effort.  It  must  be  got  from 
the  poem  as  a  whole,  and  cannot  here  even  be 
indicated,  but  the  few  following  lines  will  show  the 
romantic  common-sense  of  the  poet  inspiring  the  lips 
of  the  Prince  : 

Such  is  the  reason  why  I  acquiesced 

In  doing  what  seemed  best  for  me  to  do, 

So  as  to  please  myself  on  the  great  scale, 

Having  regard  to  immortality 

No  less  than  life — did  that  which  head  and  heart 

Prescribed  my  hand,  in  measure  with  its  means 

Of  doing — used  my  special  stock  of  power. 


Itali?*  149 

Not  from  the  aforesaid  head  and  heart  alone, 

But  every  sort  of  helpful  circumstance, 

Some  problematic  and  some  nondescript  : 

All  regulated  by  the  single  care 

I '  the  last  resort— that  I  made  throughly  serve 

The  when  and  how,  toiled  where  was  need,  reposed 

As  resolutely  at  the  proper  point. 

Braved  sorrow,  courted  joy,  to  just  one  end : 

Namely,  that  just  the  creature  I  was  bound 

To  be,  I  should  become,  nor  thwart  at  all 

God's  purpose  in  creation.     I  conceive 

No  other  duty  possible  to  man, — 

Highest  mind,  lowest  mind,  no  other  law 

By  which  to  judge  life  failure  or  success : 

What  folk  call  being  saved  or  cast  away. 

Such  was  my  rule  of  life  :  I  worked  my  best 
Subject  to  ultimate  judgment,  God's  not  man's. 

Although  Mrs.  Browning  had  been  dead  eleven 
years  when  the  poem  was  written,  it  was  undoubt- 
edly influenced  by  the  memory  of  her  enthusiasm  for 
the  man  who  once — whatever  his  other  acts — inter- 
vened on  behalf  of  Italy.  Her  feeling  for  the  cause 
of  freedom  amounted  to  a  passion,  and  two  letters 
written  in  i860  and  1861  to  Mr.  Tilton  in  America 
show  not  only  her  devotion  to  the  cause  of  Italian 
unity  but  also  the  attitude  she  took  toward  American 
affairs,  at  the  time  as  chaotic  as  those  of  Italy  : 

"July  20,  (i860) 
"Casa  Guidi,  Florence. 

"Dear  Sir:  In  acknowledging  your  liberality  in 
$200  received  through  Mr.  Francis,  I  send  you  other 
two  new  poems  on  Italian  affairs  with  a  certain  rea- 
sonable shyness.    Pray  understand  that  I  would  not 


I50  Browning. 

for  the  world  take  advantage  of  your  having  perhaps 
overgenerously  made  a  rash  engagement  v^ith  me. 

"  If  these  MSS.,  destined  for  a  future  edition  of  my 
Italian  volume,  should  suit  you,  they  are  at  your  serv- 
ice ;  if  not,  let  them  pass  simply  into  Mr.  Francis's 
hands  for  the  book.  Do  I  tire  you  of  Italy  ?  Another 
time  I  may  let  you  have  poems  of  a  more  general  in- 
terest. Only,  here,  it  is  hard  for  us  to  understand 
how  anything  can  be  of  a  more  general  interest  than 
this  subject.  We  are  feeling  keenly  about  the  South. 
May  God  keep  that  hero,  Garibaldi.  His  danger  is 
less  from  the  sword  than  from  certain  influences  un- 
favourable to  the  national  sentiment,  and  against 
which  he  should  have  steel  in  his  brain.  Divisions 
coming  now  (for  the  first  time  in  this  great  move- 
ment !)  would  strengthen  the  separatists  at  Naples 
and  turn  to  earnest  what  has  been  merely  formal  and 
official  in  the  action  of  foreign  diplomacy.  When 
did  Mazzini's  finger  ever  touch  Italy  without  a  blot 
showing  where  ?  Mr.  Francis  hints  that  your  people 
are  not  very  Napoleonist.  "Neither  am  I  in  any 
partisan  sense.  My  Summing  Up  is  a  bare  state- 
ment. As  for  the  Emperor,  there  will  be  a  reaction 
in  time,  and  meanwhile  it  would  be  a  pity  if  abstract 
thinkers,  such  as  you  and  I,  should  allow  ourselves 
to  be  carried  away  in  the  panic  and  passions  of  Eu- 
rope, from  an  estimate  of  the  real  position.  The 
Emperor's  far-sightedness  in  foreign  policy  produces 
a  necessary  disagreement  with  statesmen  who  did 
not  see  far,  and  his  recognition  of  the  rights  of  ma- 


Iltafe  151 

jorities  and  the  nationalities,  being  perfectly  under- 
stood by  the  retrograde  parties  at  least,  these  build 
monstrous  barricades  of  impossible  calumnies  for  the 
arrest  of  progress  and  the  confusion  of  the  world. 
Will  they  succeed  in  their  scheme  of  drumming  up  a 
coalition  of  the  old  governments  against  France  ? 
And,  in  that  case,  on  whose  side  will  go  the  peoples  ? 
Those  are  questions,  but  this  is  a  fact,  that  at  home 
the  Pope's  tyranny  is  maintained  and  abetted  by 
French  anti-imperialist  parties  as  a  means  of  op- 
position to  the  Emperor.  '  Non  his  armis '  you 
would  say  if  you  were  a  French  protestor  against  the 
Government.  Is  France  to  stir  a  fmger,  do  you  think, 
to  get  these  so-called  liberals  back  to  power  ?  Believe 
in  the  instinct  of  nations. 

''  Elizabeth  B.  Browning." 

"126  Via  Felice, 
"  Rome  [Early  in  1861]. 

''  My  Dear  Mr.  Tilton  :  If  you  have  had  time  un- 
der the  pressure  of  your  many  thoughts  at  this  crisis 
to  think  of  me  at  all  you  may  have  wondered  at  the 
gap  in  my  letters — but  I  have  suffered  great  unhappi- 
ness  and  lost  my  usual  power  of  occupying  myself  in 
consequence. 

''  Now  I  send  you  something — or  nothing  as  you 
may  decide — (three  poems) — I  don't  insist  on  its  being 
something — remember  that.  I  have  received  The 
Independents  very  thankfully.  It  was  by  accident 
that  I  saw  the  Garibaldi  stanzas  in  the  anti-slavery 
paper  first,  and  I  should  be  quick  to  acknowledge 


152  Browning. 

that  the  typographical  faults  were  confined  to  it. 
You  are  very  good  in  representing  me  with  correct- 
ness, as  in  all  the  rest.  My  husband  has  drawn  for 
the  remittance  belonging  to  the  last  two  poems, 
Garibaldi  and  the  Summing  Up. 

''  Perhaps  one  of  these  days  his  sense  of  your  gen- 
erosity and  appreciation  of  it  as  a  peculiar  expression 
of  kind  sentiment  toward  both  of  us  may  overcome 
his  disinclination  to  the  periodical  channel.  Never 
suppose  that  I  have  not  done  my  best  to  send  him  to 
you  in  my  stead — I  know  my  place  too  well  as  poet, 
and  my  duty  too  well  as  your  contributor.  Shall  1 
say  that  Cornhill  and  The  Atlantic  Monthly  have 
hitherto  solicited  him  in  vain  ?  But  I  don't  give  up 
hope. 

''  I  thank  you  very  much  for  your  most  interesting 
letter  on  American  affairs.  1  go  with  your  party  en- 
tirely. The  Constitution  could  only  be  rectified  from 
within,  unless  you  attacked  it  from  without  with 
guns,  and  I  think  Garrison  eschewed  the  latter  mode. 
He  would  use  neither  Congress  nor  sword.  Now 
the  question  is  thrown  into  new  possibilities  of  solu- 
tion by  that  fine  madness  of  the  South,  which  is 
God's  gift  to  the  world  in  these  latter  days  in  order  to 
the  restitution  of  all  things  and  the  re-constitution 
everywhere  of  political  justice  and  national  right. 

"  See  how  it  has  been  in  Italy  !  If  Austria  had  not 
madly  invaded  Piedmont  in  1859,  France  could  not 
have  fought.  If  the  Pope  had  not  been  madly  obsti- 
nate in   rejecting  the  reforms  pressed  on  him  by 


Utal^.  153 

France,  he  must  have  been  sustained  as  a  temporal 
ruler.  If  the  King  of  Naples  had  not  madly  refused 
to  accept  the  overtures  of  Piedmont  toward  an  alli- 
ance in  free  government  and  Italian  independence, 
we  should  have  had  to  wait  for  Italian  unity.  So 
with  the  rulers  of  Tuscany,  Modena,  etc.  Every- 
body was  mad  at  the  right  moment.  I  thank  God 
for  it.  '  Mais,  mon  cher,'  said  Napoleon  to  the  Tus- 
can ex-Grand  Duke,  weeping  before  him  as  a  suppli- 
ant, '  vous  etiez  a  Solferino.'  That  act  of  pure 
madness  settled  the  Duke's  claims  upon  Tuscany. 
And  looking  yearningly  to  our  poor  Venetia  (to  say 
nothing  of  other  suffering  peoples  beyond  this  penin- 
sula) my  cry  must  still  be  :  '  Give,  Give !  More 
madness,  Lord ! ' 

"  The  Pope  has  been  madder  than  anybody,  and 
for  a  much  longer  time,  exactly  because  his  case  was 
complex  and  difficult,  and  because  with  Catholic 
Europe  and  the  French  clerical  party  (strengthened 
by  M.  Guizot  and  the  whole  French  dynastic  opposi- 
tion, I  wish  them  joy  of  their  cause)  drawn  up  on 
the  Holy  Father's  side,  the  least  touch  of  sanity 
would  have  saved  him,  to  the  immense  injury  of  the 
Italian  nation.  As  it  is,  we  are  at  the  beginning  of 
the  end.  We  see  light  at  the  end  of  the  cavern. 
There  's  a  dark  turning,  indeed,  about  Venetia— but 
we  won't  hit  our  heads  against  the  stalactites  even 
there — and  beyond  we  get  out  into  a  free,  great, 
independent  Italy.     May  God  save  us  to  the  end  ! 

"  At  this  point  the  anxiety  on  American  affairs  can 


154  Browning. 

take  its  full  share  of  thought.  My  partiality  for  fren- 
zies is  not  so  absorbing,  believe  me,  as  to  exclude 
very  painful  considerations  on  the  dissolution  of  your 
great  Union.  But  my  serious  fear  has  been  and  is, 
not  for  the  dissolution  of  the  body,  but  the  death  of 
the  soul — not  of  a  rupture  of  the  States  and  civil 
war — but  of  reconciliation  and  peace  at  the  expense 
of  a  deadly  compromise  of  principle.  Nothing  will 
destroy  the  Republic  but  what  corrupts  its  conscience 
and  disturbs  its  fame — for  the  stain  upon  the  honour 
must  come  off  upon  the  flag.  If,  on  the  other  hand, 
the  North  stands  fast  on  the  moral  ground,  no  glory 
will  be  like  your  glory — your  frontiers  may  diminish, 
but  your  essential  greatness  will  increase,  your  foes 
may  be  of  your  own  household,  but  your  friends 
must  be  among  all  just  and  righteous  men,  whether 
in  the  body  or  out  of  the  body.  You  are  ''  compassed 
by  a  great  cloud  of  witnesses,"  and  can  afford  to  risk 
anything  except  conscience.  Ought  not  the  North, 
for  instance,  to  propose  a  pecuniary  compromise, 
taxing  itself  for  compensation  to  the  South  ?  What 
surprises  me  is  that  the  slaves  don't  rise. 

"Never  imagine  from  anything  said  to  you  by  Mr. 
Bayard  Taylor,  who  remembers  far  too  well  a  mere 
historical  remark  of  mine  upon  the  influence  of  gov- 
ernment on  art,  that  I  am  non-republican.  1  honour 
republicanism  everywhere  as  an  expression  of  the 
people,  but  it  seems  to  me  that  a  theoretical  attach- 
ment to  any  form  of  government  whatever  is  simply 
pedantry,  as  if  one  should  insist  on  everybody's 


Utal^.  155 

wearing  one  kind  of  hat  or  adopting  one  attitude. 
A  genuine  government  is  simply  the  attitude  of  that 
special  people.  What  we  require  for  every  man  (or 
State)  is  life,  health,  muscular  freedom  to  choose  his 
own  attitude.  Let  us  be  for  the  democracy  and  leave 
the  rest.  Who  cares  for  the  figure  at  the  helm  so 
long  as  the  people's  wind  is  in  the  sails  ?  I  care  lit- 
tle. Only  I  do  care  that  the  democracy  should  have 
power — that  each  man  should  have  the  inheritance 
of  a  man  and  the  right  of  voting  where  he  is  taxed. 
So  this  is  my  creed.     .    .    . 

"Napoleon  will  come  out  admirably  in  the  Italian 
results.  He  has  had  Europe  at  the  end  of  the  diplo- 
matical  sword  of  fence  and  a  European  coalition 
against  him  as  no  remote  contingency.  Often  what 
has  seemed  like  opposition  to  our  progress  here  has 
simply  been  putting  on  the  drag  down-hill  when  the 
wheel  was  inclined  to  a  perilous  velocity.  But  there 
are  some  who  cannot  understand,  and  more  who 
will  not.  It  will  be  enough  that  the  Italian  nation 
understands." 

In  these  letters  we  have  the  actual  spirit  of  the 
Italian  poems.  Browning's  own  attitude  was  much 
less  pronounced.  In  the  prefatory  note  to  Prince 
Hohenstiel-Schwangau  in  the  Cambridge  edition,  a 
quotation  is  made  from  a  letter  to  Miss  Blagden  that 
sums  up  his  personal  view. 

'M  am  glad  you  have  got  my  little  book,"  he  says, 
*'  and  seen  for  yourself  whether  I  make  the  best  or 
the  worst  of  the  case.     I  think,  in  the  main,  he  meant 


156  Browning. 

to  do  what  I  say,  and  but  for  weakness — grown  more 
apparent  in  his  last  years  than  formerly — would  have 
done  what  I  say  he  did  not.  I  thought  badly  of  him 
at  the  beginning  of  his  career,  et  pour  cause:  better 
afterward  on  the  strength  of  the  promises  he  made 
and  gave  indications  of  intending  to  redeem.  I  think 
him  very  weak  in  the  last  miserable  year.  At  his 
worst  I  prefer  him  to  Thiers's  best." 

It  is  not,  indeed,  any  single  work  or  passage  that 
connects  Browning  with  Italy  in  the  minds  of  those 
who  care  for  his  poems.  It  is  the  fact  that  he  never 
wrote  of  any  other  country  with  so  much  of  the 
feeling  the  Japanese  have  for  the  very  trees  and  flow- 
ers of  their  land  ;  the  continual  turning  of  his  mind 
to  Italian  symbols,  to  impressions  gained  from  the 
intricate  web  of  her  history,  from  the  aspect  of  her 
houses,  the  smile  of  her  women,  the  interests  of 
her  men,  the  paintings  of  her  churches,  the  warmth 
and  fulness  of  light  in  her  streets  and  piazzas  ;  and 
this  long  before  he  went  there  to  live  with  his  wife 
and  long  after  he  had  left  her  Florentine  grave  to 
return  to  England. 

Shortly  before  he  died  the  fancy  seized  him  to 
own  some  land  in  Asolo,  the  little  town  he  ''discov- 
ered "  fifty  years  before  on  his  first  Italian  visit,  and 
he  hit  upon  property  belonging  to  the  old  castle 
which  the  municipality  had  previously  refused  to 
sell.  The  day  the  vote  was  taken  authorising  the 
purchase  was  the  day  of  the  poet's  death,  and  on 
the  same  day  the  book  Asolando  was  published. 


Iltal^-  157 

The  little  old  fortified  city,  ''where  the  voices 
of  Queen  and  Court  are  all  stilled,  where  the  silk 
mills  no  longer  busily  whir,  and  the  pretty  girls  have 
ceased  to  go  to  and  from  their  work,"  showed  her 
gratitude  toward  the  English  poet  in  whose  verse 
her  name  is  countlessly  mentioned  by  placing  a 
mural  tablet  on  the  house  he  occcupied. 

The  municipality  of  Venice,  also,  placed  on  the 
outer  wall  of  the  vast  Rezzonico  Palace  (the  home 
of  Browning's  son)  a  tablet  bearing  this  inscription  : 

A 

ROBERTO  BROWNING 

MORTO   IN   QUESTO    PALAZZO 

IL  12  DICEMBRE  1 889 

VENEZIA 

POSE 

and  in  the  right-hand  corner  his  own  lines  — 

"  Open  my  heart  and  you  will  see 
Graved  inside  of  it  '  Italy.'  " 

Then  on  the  walls  of  Casa  Guidi  in  Florence  is 
the  marble  slab  with  its  inscription  by  the  Italian 
poet,  Tommaseo  — 

QUI  SCRISSE  E  MORi 

ELISABETTA  BARRETT  BROV^NING 

CHE  IN  CUORE  DI  DONNA  CONCILIAVA 

SCIENZA  DI  DOTTO  E  SPIRITO  DI  POETA 

E  FECE  DEL  SUO  VERSO  AUREO  ANELLO 

FRA  ITALIA  E  INGHILTERRA 

PONE  QUESTA  LAPIDE 

FIRENZE  GRATA 

i86l 


58 


:f6rownina. 


Thus  in  three  towns  of  Italy  the  memory  of  the 
Brownings  is  preserved  by  a  people  as  responsive 
as  they  themselves  were  to  any  form  of  genuine 
affection. 


CHAPTER  IX. 
POEMS  ON  MUSIC  AND  PAINTING. 

BROWNING  has  been  called  by  some  rash  spirit 
the  "  Leonardo  of  the  Nineteenth  Century." 
It  is  only  necessary  to  recall  the  true  Leo- 
nardo,— anatomist,  botanist,  physiologist,  sculptor, 
architect,  musician,  astronomer,  chemist,  geologist, 
geographer,  engineer,  and  the  painter  of  Mona  Lisa, 
—to  smile  at  a  comparison  that  would  certainly  have 
moved  the  poet's  laughter  if  not  his  scorn.  Yet 
Brov/ning's  interest  in  all  forms  of  intellectual  activ- 
ity, and  his  insatiable  curiosity  concerning  the  minds 
of  men  preoccupied  with  art  and  science,  justify,  in  a 
way,  the  use  of  that  tremendous  name  to  indicate  his 
humbler  range. 

In  music  and  painting,  at  least,  he  is  at  home  as 
in  poetry, — or,  possibly,  the  truer  statement  would 
be  that  he  is  a  familiar  guest  in  these  neighbouring 
regions.  Rossetti  said  of  him  that  his  knowledge 
of  early  Italian  art  was  beyond  that  of  anyone  he 
ever  met,  and  "encyclopaedically  beyond  that  of 
Ruskin  himself";  and  a  writer  in  Music  calls  him 

159 


i6o  Browning. 

"  the  first  of  all  English  poets  to  truly  and  thoroughly 
recognise  music  for  what  it  is." 

Moreover,  you  do  not  read  many  pages  of  his 
without  gaining  some  suggestion  that  he  was  per- 
sonally intimate  with  the  feelings  a  painter  has  to- 
ward his  picture,  and  a  musician  toward  his  music, 
and  his  precision  in  handling  the  vocabulary  of 
painters  and  musicians  is  undoubtedly  due  to  his 
own  exercise  in  their  special  crafts.  When  in  Italy 
he  studied  modelling  with  Story,  and  Mrs.  Browning 
comments  somewhat  plaintively  in  her  letters  on  the 
"  fury  "  with  which  he  "  rests  "  from  poetry  in  mak- 
ing and  destroying  his  portrait  busts,  and  very 
doubtfully  concludes  that  it  may  be  better  so. 
Such,  certainly,  was  the  case,  for  without  that  work- 
man's knowledge,  that  actual  subduing  of  the  hand 
to  the  material  employed,  he  could  hardly  have 
gained  the  sure,  convincing  note  of  his  technical  allu- 
sions, or  that  spirit  of  enthusiasm  inspiring  them 
which  only  personal  memories  of  difficulties  van- 
quished can  arouse. 

The  uninstructed  reader  scores  these  technical 
allusions  on  the  side  of  his  "  obscurity,"  but  those  to 
whom  they  are  intelligible  find  in  the  man  emphatic 
proof  of  his  originality  as  a  poet  of  self-expression. 
While,  doubtless,  another  metaphor  might  be  sub- 
stituted for  each  one  that  he  draws  from  either  art, 
the  mind  would  not  in  that  case  receive  the  same 
impression,  would  miss  one  aspect  of  the  'Movely 
truth  that  careless  angels  know  "  ;  and  be  cheated 


poems  on  flDudc  anb  ipaintlna.         i6i 

of  one  suggestion  of  the  interplay  of  our  faculties  and 
aptitudes  on  which  we  found  our  imagination  of  a 
future  with  wider  possibilities  of  development,— the 
secret  hope  of  all  of  us.  Hence  the  appropriateness 
of  his  excursions  into  technical  language  to  his  plan 
of  seizing  upon  every  opportunity  open  to  him  for 
making  others  see  with  his  eyes  and  hear  with  his 
ears. 

The  teasing  fascination  for  him  of  his  side-exits 
from  the  permanent  home  of  his  own  art  is  shown  in 
innumerable  passages  of  his  poetry,  and  in  One  Word 
More  he  utters  clearly  the  old  cry  for  more  worlds  to 
conquer,  with  regretful  recognition  of  its  impotence. 
Raphael  made  a  century  of  sonnets,  Dante  once  pre- 
pared to  paint  an  angel : 

What  of  Rafael's  sonnets,  Dante's  picture  ? 

This  :  no  artist  lives  and  loves,  that  longs  not 

Once,  and  only  once,  and  for  one  only 

(  Ah,  the  prize  !),  to  find  his  love  a  language 

Fit  and  fair  and  simple  and  sufficient — 

Using  nature  that  's  an  art  to  others, 

Not,  this  one  time,  art  that  's  turned  his  nature. 

Ay,  of  all  the  artists  living,  loving. 

None  but  would  forego  his  proper  dowry, — 

Does  he  paint .?  he  fain  would  write  a  poem, — 

Does  he  write  ?  he  fain  would  paint  a  picture, 

Put  to  proof  art  alien  to  the  artist's, 

Once,  and  only  once,  and  for  one  only, 

Go  to  be  the  man  and  leave  the  artist. 

Gain  the  man's  joy,  miss  the  artist's  sorrow. 

I  shall  never,  in  the  years  remaining,  , 

Paint  you  pictures,  no,  nor  carve  you  statues. 
Make  you  music  that  should  all-express  me  ; 


1 62  Brownlna. 

So  it  seems  :  I  stand  on  my  attainment, 

This  of  verse  alone,  one  life  allows  me  ; 

Verse  and  nothing  else  have  I  to  give  you. 

Other  heights  in  other  lives,  God  willing  : 

All  the  gifts  from  all  the  heights,  your  own,  Love  ! 

It  was,  perhaps,  his  comprehension  of  the  funda- 
mental differences  as  well  as  the  fundamental  agree- 
ment between  the  various  incarnations  of  the  art 
spirit  that  kept  Browning  from  trying  primarily  to 
make  pictures  and  music  of  his  poetry.  He  did  not, 
certainly,  lack  the  power  to  do  so.  Although  even 
his  lyrical  poems  are  said  to  be  with  difficulty  adapted 
to  a  musical  setting,  much  of  his  poetry  has  a  meas- 
ure of  melody. 

''At  all  events,"  Mr.  Burlingame  says  of  him, 
what  is  called  the  ''roughness"  of  his  verse  "is 
never  the  roughness  that  comes  from  mismanage- 
ment or  disregard  of  the  form  chosen.  He  has  an 
unerring  ear  for  time  and  quantity  ;  and  his  subordin- 
ation to  the  laws  of  his  metre  is  extraordinary  in  its 
minuteness.  Of  ringing  lines  there  are  many  ;  of 
broadly  sonorous  or  softly  melodious  ones  but  few  ; 
and  especially  (if  one  chooses  to  go  into  details 
of  technic)  he  seems  curiously  without  that  use  of 
the  broad  vowels  which  underlies  the  melody  of 
so  many  great  passages  of  English  poetry.  Ex- 
cept in  the  one  remarkable  instance  of  How  We  Car- 
ried the  Good  News  from  Ghent  to  Aix  there  is  little 
onomatopoeia,  and  almost  no  note  of  the  flute  ;  no 
'  moan  of  doves  in  immemorial  elms '  or   '  lucent 


poems  on  flDueic  anb  painting.         163 

sirops  tinct  with  cinnamon.'  On  the  other  hand,  in 
his  management  of  metres  like  that  of  Love  among 
the  Ruins,  for  instance,  he  shows  a  different  side  ; 
the  pure  lyrics  in  Pippa  Passes  and  elsewhere  sing 
themselves ;  and  there  are  memorable  cadences  in 
some  of  the  more  meditative  poems  like  By  the 
Fireside."'^ 

Also,  when  he  chooses  to  use  words  in  the  man- 
ner of  the  *'  nature-poets  "he  evokes  charming  images 
of  outdoor  scenes,  as  in  these  lines  : 

When  the  quiet-coloured  end  of  evening  smiles 

Miles  and  miles 
On  the  solitary  pastures  where  our  sheep 

Half-asleep 
Tinkle  homeward  through  the  twilight,  stray  or  stop 

As  they  crop  ; 

or  in  the  Meeting  at  Night  : 

The  grey  sea  and  the  long  black  land  ; 
And  the  yellow  half-moon  large  and  low  ; 
And  the  startled  little  waves  that  leap 
In  fiery  ringlets  from  their  sleep  ; 

or  the  lovely  woodland  pictures  in  Pauline: 

Thou  wilt  remember  one  warm  morn  when  winter 
Crept  aged  from  the  earth,  and  spring's  first  breath 
Blew  soft  from  the  moist  hills  ;  the  blackthorn  boughs 
So  dark  in  the  bare  wood,  when  glistening 
In  the  sunshine  were  white  with  coming  buds, 
Like  the  bright  side  of  a  sorrow,  and  the  banks 
Had  violets  opening  from  sleeplike  eyes. 

And  when  he  chooses  to  consider  nature  sub- 

'  See  article  in  Browning  Warner's  Library  of  the  IVorld's  Best  Literature. 


1 64  Browning. 

jectively,  he  shows  almost  the  force  of  Coleridge, 
and  more  than  the  sentiment  of  Tennyson.  The 
effect  of  strange  aspects  of  the  outer  visible  world 
upon  an  excited  imagination  is  hardly  more  vividly 
rendered  in  The  Ancient  Mariner  than  in  Childe 
Roland : 

What  made  those  holes  and  rents 


In  the  dock's  harsh  swarth  leaves,  bruised  as  to  balk 
All  hope  of  greenness  ?  't  is  a  brute  must  walk 
Pushing  their  life  out,  with  a  brute's  intents. 

As  for  the  grass  it  grew  as  scant  as  hair 
In  leprosy  ;  thin  dry  blades  pricked  the  mud 
Which  underneath  looked  kneaded  up  with  blood. 
One  stiff  blind  horse,  his  every  bone  a-stare, 
Stood  stupefied,  however  he  came  there  ; 
Thrust  out  past  service  from  the  devil's  stud  ! 

Alive  ?  he  might  be  dead  for  aught  I  know, 
With  that  red,  gaunt,  and  colloped  neck  a-strain 
And  shut  eyes  underneath  the  rusty  mane  ; 
Seldom  went  such  grotesqueness  with  such  woe  ; 
I  never  saw  a  brute  I  hated  so  ; 

And  the  larkspur  and  lily  and  rose  in  Mand  are 
given  no  more  exultant  sympathy  with  the  human 
mood  than  David  finds  on  his  homeward  journey 
through  the  fields  toward  Bethlehem,  when  ''the 
stars  of  night  beat  with  emotion  "  until 

Anon  at  the  dawn,  all  that  trouble  had  withered  from  earth — 

Not  so  much  but  I  saw  it  die  out  in  the  day's  tender  birth  ; 

In  the  gathered  intensity  brought  to  the  grey  of  the  hills  ; 

In  the  shuddering  forests'  held  breath  ;  in  the  sudden  wind- 
thrills. 

In  the  startled  wild  beasts  that  bore  off,  each  with  eye  sidling 
still 


poems  on  flDuslc  an^  painting.         165 

Though  averted  with  wonder  and  dread  ;  in  the  birds  stiff  and 
chill 

That  rose  heavily  as  I  approached  them,  made  stupid  with  awe  ; 

E'en  the  serpent  that  slid  away  silent, — he  felt  the  new  law. 

The  same  stared  in  the  white  humid  faces  upturned  by  the 
flowers  ; 

The  same  worked  in  the  heart  of  the  cedar  and  moved  the  vine- 
bowers  ; 

And  the  little  brooks  witnessing  murmured,  persistent  and  low, 

With  their  obstinate,  all  but  hushed  voices — "E'en  so,  it  is  so  ! " 


These  examples,  however,  stand  out  in  strong 
relief  against  the  background  of  his  usual  method  of 
treating  the  separate  arts  as  infusible  and  poetry  as 
the  expression  chiefly  of  the  inner  life.  His  poems 
on  painting  and  music  do  not  try  to  represent  the 
impressions  produced  by  these  arts,  as  his  poetry  in 
general  does  not  try  to  compete  with  them  in  pro- 
ducing such  impressions.  They  represent,  instead, 
the  creative  or  critical  spirit  in  painters  and  musicians, 
expressed  in  their  own  language,  and  by  their  indi- 
vidual turns  of  thought  growing  out  of  their  special 
associations. 

The  three  typical  painters  in  the  poems  Pictor 
Ignotus,  Fra  Lippo  Lippi,  and  Andrea  del  Sarto,  show 
three  aspects  of  the  aesthetic  impulse  :  the  first  be- 
longing to  ''  the  season  of  Art's  spring  birth,  so  dim 
and  dewy,"  the  impulse  by  which  the  first  monastic 
painters  were  stirred  when  they  wept  and  prayed 
in  adoration  as  they  drew  ;  the  second,  the  simul- 
taneous invasion  of  religion  and  art  by  the  realistic 
spirit ;  the  third,  the  ruinous  tendency  toward  com- 


1 66  Browning. 

promise,  the  effort  to  serve  two  masters,  the  sacrifice 
of  sincerity  to  popularity.  Andrea  del  Sarto,  the 
poem  in  which  this  failure  to  fulfil  the  first  duty 
of  the  artist  is  sympathetically  shown,  has  been,  curi- 
ously enough,  the  poem  through  which  Browning's 
knowledge  of  art  is  most  generally  recognised.  His 
sorrow  for  the  fate  by  which  Andrea  was  tied  to 
academic  excellence  and  denied  the  imaginative  reach 
of  faultier  painters  finds  expression  so  mild  and  so 
tender,  so  permeated  by  the  serenity  of  resignation, 
that,  in  its  grave  and  sober  charm,  we  forget  the 
degradation  of  the  type  and  how  little  truth  to  the 
essence  of  the  artistic  instinct  there  is  in  it.  Dr. 
Berdoe  has  sketched  the  character  of  the  painter,  as 
he  sees  it  in  his  poem,  with  vigorous  scorn  : 

"  '  Faultless  but  soulless  '  is  the  verdict  of  art  crit- 
ics on  Andrea's  works.  Why  is  this  ?  Mr.  Brown- 
ing's poem  tells  us  in  no  hesitating  phrase  that  the 
secret  lay  in  the  fact  that  Andrea  was  an  immoral 
man,  an  infatuated  man,  passionately  demanding 
love  from  a  woman  who  had  neither  heart  nor  in- 
tellect, a  wife  for  whom  he  sacrificed  his  soul  and  the 
highest  interests  of  his  art.  He  knew  and  loved 
Lucrezia  while  she  was  another  man's  wife  ;  he  was 
content  that  she  should  also  love  other  men  when 
she  was  his.  He  robbed  King  Francis,  his  generous 
patron,  that  he  might  give  the  money  to  his  un- 
worthy spouse.  He  neglected  his  parents  in  their 
poverty  and  old  age.  Is  there  not  in  these  facts  the 
secret  of  his  failure  ?    To  Mr.  Browninof  there  is,  and 


poems  on  flDusic  an^  painting.  167 

his  poem  tells  us  why.  But,  it  will  be  objected, 
many  great  geniuses  have  been  immoral  men.  This 
is  so,  but  we  cannot  argue  the  point  here  ;  the  poet's 
purpose  is  to  show  how  in  this  particular  case  the 
evil  seed  bore  fruit  after  its  kind.  The  poem  opens 
with  the  artist's  attempts  to  bribe  his  wife  by  money 
to  accord  him  a  little  semblance  of  love :  he  pro- 
mises to  paint  that  he  may  win  gold  for  her.  The 
keynote  of  the  poem  is  struck  in  these  opening 
words.  It  is  evening,  and  Andrea  is  weary  with  his 
work,  but  he  is  never  weary  of  praising  Lucrezia's 
beauty  ;  sadly  he  owns  that  he  is  at  best  only  a 
shareholder  in  his  wife's  affections,  that  even  her 
pride  in  him  is  gone,  that  she  neither  understands 
nor  cares  to  understand  his  art.  He  tells  her  that  he 
can  do  easily  and  perfectly  what  at  the  bottom  of 
his  heart  he  wishes  for,  deep  as  that  might  be  ;  he 
could  do  what  others  agonise  to  do  all  their  lives  and 
fail  in  doing,  yet  he  knows,  for  all  that,  there  burns  a 
truer  light  of  God  in  them  than  in  him.  Their  works 
drop  groundward,  though  their  souls  have  glimpses 
of  heaven  that  are  denied  to  him.  He  could  have 
beaten  Rafael  had  he  possessed  Rafael's  soul  ;  for 
the  Urbinate's  technical  skill,  he  takes  a  childish  de- 
light in  showing,  is  inferior  to  his  own  ;  and  had  his 
Lucrezia  urged  him,  inspired  him,  to  claim  a  seat  by 
the  side  of  Michelangelo  and  Rafael,  he  might  for 
her  sake  have  done  it.  He  sees  he  is  but  a  half-man 
working  in  an  atmosphere  of  silver-grey.  He  had 
his  chance  at  Fontainebleau  ;  there  he  sometimes 


1 68  Browning* 

seemed  to  leave  the  ground^  but  he  had  a  chain 
which  dragged  him  down.  Lucrezia  called  him. 
Not  only  for  her  did  he  forsake  the  higher  art  ambi- 
tions, but  the  common  ground  of  honesty  ;  he  de- 
scended to  cement  his  walls  with  the  gold  of  King 
Francis  which  he  had  stolen,  and  for  her.  From  dis- 
honesty to  connivance  at  his  wife's  infidelity  is  an 
easy  step  ;  and  so,  while  in  the  act  of  expressing  his 
remorse  at  his  ingratitude  to  the  King,  we  find  him 
asking  Lucrezia  quite  naturally,  as  a  matter  of  ordi- 
nary occurrence : 

'  Must  you  go  ? 
That  cousin  here  again  ?  he  waits  outside  ? 
Must  see  you — you,  and  not  with  me  ?' 

*'  Here  we  discover  the  secret  of  the  soullessness  ; 
the  fellow  has  the  tailor  in  his  blood,  even  though 
the  artist  is  supreme  at  the  fingers'  ends.  He  is  but 
a  craftsman  after  all.  Think  of  Fra  Angelico  painting 
his  saints  and  angels  on  his  knees,  straining  his  eyes 
to  catch  the  faintest  glimpse  of  the  heavenly  radi- 
ance of  Our  Lady's  purity  and  holiness,  feeling  that 
he  failed,  too  dazzled  by  the  brightness  of  Divine  light 
to  catch  more  than  its  shadow,  and  we  shall  know 
why  there  is  soul  in  the  great  Dominican  painter, 
and  why  there  is  none  in  the  Sarto.  Lucrezia,  de- 
spicable as  she  was,  was  not  the  cause  of  her  hus- 
band's failure.  His  marriage,  his  treatment  of  Francis, 
his  allowing  his  parents  to  starve,  to  die  of  want, 
while  he  paid  gaming  debts  for  his  wife's  lover, — all 


poems  on  flDuslc  an^  painting.  169 

these  things  tell  us  what  the  man  was.  No  woman 
ruined  his  soul  ;  he  had  no  soul  to  ruin." 

This  description  is  admirable  so  far  as  it  concerns 
the  Andrea  of  Vasari's  account ;  but  the  Andrea  of 
the  poem  is  a  more  poetic  figure.  The  prevailing 
impression  is  certainly  of  sadness  rather  than  of  bad- 
ness, and  Browning  was  doubtless  more  concerned 
with  the  mood  he  was  trying  to  portray  than  with 
the  character  and  the  lesson  to  be  drawn  from  it.  At 
all  events  the  mood  chosen  offers  us  a  glimpse  of  one 
side  of  Andrea's  nature  not  shown  to  the  world 
which  despises  him  or  to  the  wife  who  dishonours 
him  ; — the  corner  of  his  being  that  still  holds  poten- 
tialities for  greatness  too  feeble  to  push  their  way 
through  circumstance  against  the  antagonistic  vices 
of  temperament  and  character.  He  could  hardly 
have  seen  the  shortcomings  of  that  ''  forthright  crafts- 
man's hand  "  of  his  without  some  light  of  inspiration 
by  which  he  gains  also  a  glimpse  of  the  heaven  of 
sincerity  he  has  missed.  The  poem  may  be  read  as 
a  moral  lesson  or  as  the  delicate  analysis  of  a  regret- 
ful moment,  according  to  the  inclination  of  the  reader, 
whose  enjoyment  is  at  all  events  not  interrupted  by 
any  defects  of  workmanship,  the  perfection  of  the 
lines  rivalling  that  of  Andrea's  own  Madonnas. 

In  Fra  Lippo  Lippi,  a  poem  seldom  quoted  in  con- 
nection with  Browning's  interest  in  art,  he  touches 
hands  with  realism  of  the  fiery,  youthful,  joyous 
type.  There  are  few  poems  that  come  nearer  to  the 
painter's  idea  than  this  one,  showing  as  it  does  the 


1 70  Browning. 

passion  for  "the  shapes  of  things,  their  colours, 
lights  and  shades,  changes,  surprises,"  by  which  the 
master  of  Botticelli  was  inspired.  Here,  much  more 
than  in  the  Andrea  del  Sarto,  Browning  displays  his 
sympathy  with  the  instinct  for  making  portraits  pure 
and  simple  of  the  visible  world.  Never  mind  soul, 
Lippi  says  to  his  Prior,  that  has  nothing  to  do  with 
painting ;  paint  the  flesh  aright  and  count  it  crime  to 
let  a  truth  slip,  and  you  '11  see  what  you  will  get : 

Say  there  's  beauty  with  no  soul  at  all — 

(I  never  saw  it — put  the  case  the  same — ) 

If  you  get  simple  beauty  and  naught  else, 

You  get  about  the  best  thing  God  invents  ; 

That  's  somewhat ;  and  you  '11  find  the  soul  you  have  missed, 

Within  yourself,  when  you  return  him  thanks. 

This  is  no  less  Browning  than  Lippi,  at  the  mo- 
ments when  Browning  is  most  an  artist,  when  he 
cares  least  about  his  way  of  looking  at  things  and 
most  about  the  thing  looked  at,  when  he  writes  not 
with  the  idea  of  teaching  any  lesson  or  pointing  any 
moral,  but  for  the  sheer  love  of  a  beautiful  or  inter- 
esting theme  on  which  he  can  exercise  his  skill  and 
ingenuity  to  his  heart's  content.  Perhaps  the  fact 
that  these  pagan  moments  are  rare  with  him  makes 
them  the  more  precious.  Perhaps,  also,  the  fact  that 
they  reveal,  even  more  than  his  prayerful  and  didac- 
tic hours,  his  wholesome  and  impulsive  nature,  his 
abhorrence  of  insincerity  and  vulgarity,  his  liking  for 
the  brightest  and  richest,  the  most  amusing  and  in- 


poems  on  flDusic  anb  painting.  171 

teresting  aspects  of  life,  makes  them  seem  to  us  to 
hold  the  finest  distillation  of  his  genius. 

From  Lippo  Lippi  back  to  Pictor  Ignotus  is  a  step 
that  takes  us  across  a  deep  though  narrow  gulf. 
With  this  sensitive  cloistered  figure  painting  raptur- 
ously among  wan  saints  and  thin  virgins  Browning 
has  also  a  sense  in  common.  He  makes  us  feel,  cer- 
tainly, the  delicate  charm  of  the  almost  impalpable 
personality  to  which  the  world  and  the  fiesh  are 
alien  and  one  with  the  devil.  There  is  a  singularly 
pure  fiame  of  inspiration  kept  burning  on  such  altars, 
and  nothing  can  exceed  the  rapt  serenity,  the  ab- 
solute emancipation  from  the  material  and  physical 
world,  of  these  Virgins,  Babes,  and  Saints  "  with  the 
same  cold,  calm,  beautiful  regard  "  ;  but  to  say  with 
Dr.  Berdoe  that  "the  true  art-spirit"  exists  only 
or  even  chiefly  in  such  artists,  working  "for  God 
and  through  God,  not  through  men  and  for  men," 
is  to  give  a  very  general  and  imperfect  impression. 

The  ideas  that  inspired  these  purely  devotional 
paintings  were  not  aesthetic  in  kind,  but  religious. 
The  humility  that  keeps  these  painters  in  their  clois- 
ters, sacrificing  to  the  known  God,  is  a  totally  differ- 
ent thing  from  the  immense  curiosity  of  the  painter 
who  forgets  himself  in  questioning  nature  and  learn- 
ing the  secrets  of  her  multitudinous  effects.  The 
spirit  of  retirement  may  belong  to  art  or  the  spirit  of 
audacious  investigation.  Angelico  and  Lippi  are 
equally  artists  ;  but  one  is  a  religious  man  and  one  is 
not.    To  say  that  the  religious  man,  who  holds  some- 


172  Browning. 

thing  higher  in  estimation  than  the  visible,  elusive 
truth,  has  more  of  the  art-spirit  than  the  agnostic 
whose  humility  consists  of  finding  enough  to  wonder 
at,  and  try  for,  in  the  form  and  colour  of  created 
things,  is  to  confuse  separate  and  distinct  sources  of 
inspiration.  Angelico  and  Lippi,  then,  are  represent- 
ative of  two  extremes  of  the  art-spirit,  Andrea  lack- 
ing it  most  because,  with  the  keener  intelligence 
and  the '  most  instructed  mind,  he  has  the  less 
sincerity. 

That  Browning  could  so  clearly  realise  and  define 
the  qualities  of  sentiment  and  accomplishment  by 
which  each  type  is  characterised  proves  him  an  inter- 
preter infinitely  to  be  prized.  In  these  three  poems 
alone  he  has  added  more  novelty  and  variety  to  our 
impressions  of  human  nature  than  many  a  lesser  poet 
of  ''  character "  by  the  total  sum  of  his  work. 

We  find  a  similar  grasp  of  the  significance  of 
different  points  of  view  in  the  four  musical  poems  : 
A  Toccata  of  Galiippi's ;  AM  Fogler,  after  he  has 
been  Extemporising  upon  the  Musical  Instrument  of 
his  Invention;  With  Charles  Avison,  and  Master 
Hugues  of  Saxe  Gotha.  With  the  exception  of 
Master  Hugues,  who  is  a  purely  imaginary  character 
obviously  named  to  rhyme  with  fugues,  these  mu- 
sicians have  also  their  historic  prototypes,  men  who, 
following  Browning's  universal  rule  for  his  favourites, 
failed  to  gain  a  full  amount  of  appreciation  in  the 
exercise  of  their  art.  Abt  Vogler  was  a  genius  who 
somehow  let  fame  slip  through  his  nervous  fingers  ; 


poems  on  flDusic  anb  ipaintina.  i  iz 

Galuppi  was  a  prolific,  versatile  composer,  "good 
alike  at  grave  and  gay,"  and  especially  good  at  toc- 
catas or  ''touch  pieces,"  which  touch  their  theme 
lightly  as  the  poem  does,  and  in  which  ''the  inter- 
polation of  solemn  chords  and  emotional  phrases, 
inconsistent  with  their  traditional  character,  may 
naturally,  by  force  of  contrast,  lead  to  some  sugges- 
tion or  recognition  of  the  jarring  inequalities  of  life."* 
His  operas,  "  though  rich  in  melody,  always  written 
with  taste,  and  never  overloaded,  none  of  them  sur- 
vived the  revolution  of  Rossini,  fatal  to  so  many  of 
Galuppi's  contemporaries." 

Avison  was  organist,  critic,  and  composer,  with 
little  enough  warmth  from  the  divine  fire  in  his  soul. 

These  three  represent  three  distinct  types  of  artists, 
different  not  only  from  each  other,  but  from  each  of 
the  painters,  Lippo,  Angelico,  and  Andrea. 

Galuppi  represents  the  popular  type,  catering  to  a 
dancing  public,  yet  with  power  and  gravity  enough 
to  "  make  them  leave  off  talking." 

Abt  Vogler  represents  the  inspired  type,  losing 
the  sense  of  the  external  world  in  expressing  him- 
self through  sound  or  colour,  feeling  "the  finger  of 
God,  the  flash  of  the  will  that  can  "  in  his  work. 

Avison  represents  the  learned  type,  cogitating  and 
examining  with  a  freedom  quite  uninterrupted  by  the 
creative  impulse. 

Through  them  all  Browning  teaches  what  is  evid- 

•See  Mrs.  Alexander  Ireland's  paper  on  "  A  Toccata  of  Galuppi's  "  in  London 
Browning  Society  Papers,  Part  XI. 


174  Browning. 

ently  a  profound  conviction  with  him, — that  music 
expresses  feeling  somewhat  more  truly  than  it  can  be 
expressed  in  any  other  way  : 

God  has  a  few  of  us  whom  He  whispers  in  the  ear, 

The  rest  may  reason  and  welcome  !    't  is  we  musicians  know, 

says  Abt  Vogler,  and  Charles  Avison  states  critically  : 

There  is  no  truer  truth  obtainable 
By  man  than  comes  from  music  ; 

while  life  itself,  "the  very  moral  of  life,"  is  the  fugue 
in  complex  and  "  mountainous  "  form. 

Besides  this  general  philosophy  which  might,  in- 
deed, have  been  educed  by  any  imaginative  mind, 
agile  in  metaphor,  these  poems  contain  a  wealth  of 
technical  expressions  such  as  not  even  Milton,  with 
whom  music  was  a  passion  second  only  to  poetry, 
ventured  ever  to  use.  And  into  the  dry  dust  of  such 
phraseology  Browning  has  breathed  enough  life  to 
make  it  suggestive,  if  not  completely  revealing,  to 
the  Philistines  as  well  as  to  the  musician.  Of  course, 
none  but  a  musician  could  get  from  Master  Hiigues, 
or  from  Galuppi's  Toccata,  the  satisfaction  that  comes 
from  meeting  the  familiar  symbol  of  a  labour  delighted 
in,  which  is,  after  all,  the  source  of  much  of  our  pleas- 
ure in  technical  expression.  But  only  a  very  un- 
imaginative mind  could  fail  to  follow  with  some 
degree  of  apprehension  such  a  verse  as  this  from  Abt 
yogler : 


poem0  on  flDuslc  anb  ipalnting.  1 75 

Give  me  the  keys.     I  feel  for  the  common  chord  again, 
Sliding  by  semitones  till  I  sink  to  the  minor, — yes, 
And  1  blunt  it  into  a  ninth,  and  I  stand  on  alien  ground, 
Surveying  awhile  the  heights  I  rolled  from  into  the  deep. 
Which,  hark,  I  have  dared  and  done,  for  my  resting-place  is 

found. 
The  C  major  of  this  life  ;  so  now  I  will  try  to  sleep, 

or  this  from  the  Toccata : 

Well,  and  it  was  graceful  of  them — they'd  break  talk  off  and 

afford 
— She  to  bite  her  mask's  black  velvet — he  to  finger  on  his  sword 
While  you  sat  and  played  toccatas,  stately  at  the  clavichord. 
What }    Those  lesser  thirds  so  plaintive,  sixths  diminished,  sigh 

on  sigh, 
Told  them   something }     Those  suspensions,    those  solutions, 

"must  we  die  }" 
Those  commiserating  sevenths — "  Life  might  last !  we  can  but 

try  ! " 
"  Were  you  happy  }"     "  Yes, " — "  And  are  you  still  as  happy  ?  " 

"  Yes,  and  you  ?  " 
— "Then   more  kisses!" — Did   /  stop  them   when  a  million 

seemed  so  few  ? 
Hark  the  dominant's  persistence  till  it  must  be  answered  too. 
So  an  octave  strikes  the  answer. 

It  is  interesting  for  those  disposed  to  dress  them- 
selves in  a  little  brief  authority  to  learn  from  the 
notes  made  by  diligent  commentators,  how  truly  a 
musical  composition  such  as  Browning  has  imagined 
for  Galuppi  (or  possibly  played  from  his  music)/ 
would  give  the  mournful  effect  of  the  poetry,  sug- 
gesting the  same  melancholy  contrast  between  the 

'  An  American  writer  visiting  the  Casa  Guidi  in  1847  spoke  of  Mrs.  Browning  sit- 
ting under  the  trees  or  in  the  dusky  convent  chapel  "  while  Robert  Browning  at  the 
organ  chased  a  fugue,  or  dreamed  out  upon  the  twilight  keys  a  faint  throbbing  toc- 
cata of  Galuppi." 


176  Browning. 

butterfly  gaiety  of  that  delirious,  beautiful  Venice, 
and  the  ashen  close  of  the  irresponsible  epoch  in  her 
history,  when  the  dancing  and  the  kisses  turned  to 
poverty  and  shame.  Even  v/ithout  a  line  of  explan- 
ation, however,  the  poem  conveys  its  suggestion, 
which  cannot  truly  be  said  of  the  description  of  the 
fugue  in  Master  Hugues  of  Saxe  Gotha.  The  latter 
appeals  to  the  professional  mind,  and  it  is  interesting 
to  find  Browning  and  Wagner  at  one  about  the 
fugue,  Wagner  using  it  but  once,  ''and  then  to 
describe  a  street  row." 

Professor  Pierce  says  in  discussing  the  poem  : 
''Master  Hugues  of  Saxe  Gotha  is  a  powerful  and 
subtle  discussion  of  the  question  whether  an  art-form 
may  not  become  so  highly  developed  and  compli- 
cated that  it  ceases  to  be  a  medium  for  the  expres- 
sion of  mood  or  emotion — art's  true  province.  The 
old  organist  remaining  alone  in  his  loft  after  the 
service  is  over  apostrophises  the  author  of  the  fugue 
he  has  just  played  as  a  postlude.  He  has  been  trained 
in  the  strictest  classical  school,  has  studied  and 
mastered  religiously  the  severest  polyphonic  com- 
positions. But  now,  as  the  last  pedal-tone  dies 
away,  a  long-fomenting  doubt  wells  up  in  his  soul 
and  flows  over — 


Hist  !  but  a  word  fair  and  soft, 

Forth  and  be  judged,  Master  Hugues  ! 

Answer  the  question  I've  put  you  so  oft. 
What  do  you  mean  by  your  mountainous  fugues  ? 

See,  we're  alone  in  the  loft. 


IPoeme  on  fIDusic  anb  jpalnting.  i  n 

"Then  follows  an  original  and  witty  description 
of  a  fugue  which  even  in  prose  would  do  honour  to 
a  professional  contrapuntist.  .  .  .  Finally  the 
heresy  breaks  forth  : 

Friend,  your  fugue  taxes  the  finger  ; 

Learning  it  once  who  would  lose  it  ? 
Yet  all  the  while  a  misgiving  will  linger, 

Truth  's  golden  o'er  us  although  we  refuse  it — 
Nature,  though  cobwebs  we  string  her. 

Hugues  !  I  advise  med  poena 

(Counterpoint  glares  like  a  Gorgon) 
Bid  One,  Two,  Three,  Four,  Five  clear  the  arena, 

Say  the  word,  straight  I  unstop  the  full  organ, 
Blare  out  the  mode  Palestrina. 

'' .  .  .  If,  as  generally  accepted,  the  highest  Art 
be  Art's  most  perfect  concealment,  then  the  poet's 
objections  to  the  fugue  are  essentially  valid.  For 
in  all  music-literature — with  the  possible  exception 
of  some  of  Bach's  masterpieces — the  fugue-form  is 
itself  the  ultimate  aim  of  the  composition  rather  than 
being  a  medium  for  the  expression  of  anything  ;  its 
greatest  claim  to  distinction  lies  in  the  development 
of  contrapuntal  niceties  which  are  totally  lost  on  even 
a  musically  trained  auditor  except  he  be  himself 
acquainted  with  the  piece  rendered,  and  even  in  that 
case  he  is  unable  to  appreciate  those  subtleties  as 
keenly  and  fully  from  an  audible  performance  as 
from  a  reading  of  the  notes  in  his  study-chair.  For 
these  reasons  it  certainly  seems  that,  unless  we 
modify  or  extend  the  now  universally  accepted  de- 


178  Browning. 

finition  of  Art,  the  fugue  belongs  outside  Art's  true 
province.  At  any  rate  Master  Hugues  of  Saxe  Gotha 
has  been  so  far  unable  to  answer  his  astute  interroga- 
tor. Perhaps  someone  else  may  do  so.  The  attempt 
would  at  least  be  interesting." ' 

Browning's  one  slip  in  technical  phraseology,  so 
far  as  the  authoritative  critics  have  indicated,  lies  in 
his  comparison  of  evil  to  discords  in  music.  In  AM 
l^ogler  he  says  : 

Why  rushed  the  discords  in  but  that  harmony  should  be  prized  ? 

"  For  a  moment,"  his  critic  remarks,  "  he  forgot 
to  be  a  musician  and  used  the  terms  discord  and 
harmony  in  a  general  unspecialised  sense,"  discords 
being  as  much  a  part  of  harmony  in  the  technical 
sense  as  concords,  and  just  as  much  to  be  prized. 

Miss  Ormerod's  address  before  the  London  Brown- 
ing Society  on  Andrea  del  Sarto  and  AM  l^ogler  gives 
the  uninitiated  a  general  idea  of  the  significance  to 
a  musician  of  the  musical  terms  used  in  AM  Vogler, 
although  her  own  feeling  is  summed  up  in  the 
words,  'Mt  is  all  there,  and  there  is  nothing  to 
explain." 

*Mt  may  be  remembered,"  she  says,  ''that  the 
musical  instrument  of  Abt  Vogler's  invention  was 
probably  his  orchestrion,  in  which  he  embodied  all 
the  results  of  his  simplification  of  organ  systems,  and 
by  which  he  attained  superior  effects  of  tone  and 
power,  with  fewer  and  shorter  pipes.     All  this  was 

^  See  "  Robert  Browning  as  a  Musician,"  Music,  1895. 


poems  on  flDuslc  anb  painting*  1 79 

founded  on  the  theory  of  harmonics.  The  great 
advantage  of  his  orchestrion  lay  in  the  fact  of  its  be- 
ing movable,  and  thus  he  could  take  his  own  instru- 
ment about  with  him  on  his  concert  tours. 

''  Having  fixed  his  once  imaginary  instrument  in 
a  material  form,  we  find  him  in  the  poem  longing 
next  to  put  his  extemporisation  into  shape  and  form, 
but  as  ever  before,  '  the  gone  thing  was  to  go.' 

"  I  remember  when  a  child  hearing  a  lady  ask  an 
old,  self-taught  Yorkshire  organist,  '  What  was  that 
piece  you  played  after  service  yesterday  morning  ? ' 
and  the  old  man  replied,  '  Eh,  mistress  !  if  you  was 
to  ax  me  from  mornin'  till  neet  1  couldn't  play  t' 
same  piece  over  again,  for  it  came  straight  out  0'  my 
'ed!' 

"  So  it  is  ;  an  extemporisation  is  a  passing  thing  ; 
perhaps  with  some  composers  an  occasional  melody 
may  come  unsought,  which  lingers  in  the  memory 
and  may  be  reproduced  at  leisure  ;  but  the  phantasy 
as  a  whole  vanishes  as  a  sunrise  mist.  It  is  con- 
sidered dangerous  for  young  musicians  to  indulge 
too  freely  in  the  delights  of  extemporisation  ;  for  in 
the  study  of  music  it  may  be  analogous  to  day- 
dreaming in  the  study  of  literature,  and  Schumann 
warns  students  not  to  give  themselves  up  too  often 
to  this  faculty. 

''We  may  suppose  that  Abt  Vogler  had  carelessly 
struck  a  chord  on  his  orchestrion,  or  possibly,  as  I 
before  suggested,  on  his  simplified  organ  at  Darm- 
stadt, and  then  all  unexpectedly,  as  such  impressions 


i8o  Browning. 

always  come,  his  soul  was  flooded  with  heavenly 
melodies  and  harmonies,  and  for  a  time  he  lost  him- 
self in  the  exquisite  phantasy.  When  the  ecstasy 
was  passing  he  remembered  the  key  in  which  he 
began  to  improvise, — 

I  feel  for  the  common  chord  again 

— and  we  may  conclude  that,  as  he  wished  to  end  in 
C  major,  it  was  the  key  in  which  he  began.  But  he 
had  wandered  far  away  from  the  original  key.  It 
would  be  impossible  in  the  limits  of  this  paper  to 
enter  upon  the  subject  of  modulation  as  the  musi- 
cian slides  by  semitones,  till  he  suddenly  finds  him- 
self on  a  neighbouring  minor,  possibly  E  flat,  he 
'  blunts  it  into  a  ninth '  (a  ninth  from  C  would  be 
D,  one  note  above  the  octave)  ;  here  he  surveys  for 
a  moment  the  flight  his  fancy  had  taken,  and  the 
musical  heights  he  so  lately  occupied. 

Which,  hark,  I  have  dared  and  done,  for  my  resting-place  is 

found. 
The  C  major  of  this  life  ;  so  now  1  will  try  to  sleep. 

''  I  was  asked  after  my  last  paper  to  explain  what 
'  C  major '  meant !  I  can  only  suggest  that  '  C 
major '  is  what  may  be  called  the  natural  scale,  hav- 
ing no  sharps  or  flats  in  its  signature.  'A  minor,' 
with  A  (a  third  below  C)  for  its  keynote,  has  the 
same  signature,  but  sharps  are  introduced  for  the 
formation  of  correct  intervals.  Pauer  says  that  minor 
keys  are  chosen  for  expressing  '  intense  seriousness, 


poems  on  flDusic  an^  painting.  i8i 

soft  melancholy,  longing,  sadness,  and  passionate 
grief  ;  whilst  major  keys  with  sharps  and  flats  in 
their  signatures  are  said  to  have  distinctive  qualities. 
Perhaps  Browning  chose  '  C  major '  for  the  key,  as 
the  one  most  allied  to  matters  of  everyday  life,  in- 
cluding rest  and  sleep. 

''  Vogler's  musical  system  was,  as  has  been  already 
remarked,  based  on  the  teachings  of  the  harmonic 
scale.  Hence  the  accusation  of  writing  books  on 
arithmetic  rather  than  music  !  If  you  strike  a  note 
sharply  on  the  piano,  and  hold  it  down,  a  series  of 
scarcely  audible  sounds  will  be  distinguished  as  aris- 
ing from  it.  Speaking  generally,  first  the  octave 
is  distinguished,  then  the  fifth,  then  the  keynote  an- 
other octave  higher,  then  the  third,  etc.  Here  then 
is  the  foundation  on  which  all  chords  are  built.  The 
fifth  and  the  third  are  intervals  of  which  the  common 
chord  is  formed. 

"  There  must  be  some  present  who  have  heard  in 
Handel's  Messiah  the  fine  bass  solos,  '  Why  do  the 
nations  so  furiously  rage  together  ? '  and  '  The  trum- 
pet shall  sound,'  or  m  Judas  Maccabeus,  'Arm,  arm, 
ye  brave  ! '  The  opening  notes  of  each  of  these 
solos  are  the  notes  of  the  common  chord,  the  key- 
note with  its  major  third,  fifth,  and  octave  treated 
as  a  melody  ;  that  is  to  say,  as  a  sequence  of  sounds, 
following  each  other.  Treated  harmonically  (that 
is  to  say,  written  above  each  other,  and  sounded 
simultaneously  either  by  separate  voices  or  on  an 
instrument) — there  is  the  common  chord !    There- 


1 82  Browning. 

fore  the  common  chord,  as  it  is  called,  the  keynote 
with  the  third  and  fifth,  contains  the  rudiments  of  all 
music. 

And  I  know  not  if,  save  in  this,  such  gift  be  allowed  to  man. 
That  out  of  three  sounds  he  frame,  not  a  fourth  sound,  but  a 

star. 
Consider  it  well,    each  tone  of  our  scale  in  itself  is  naught ; 
It  is  everywhere  in  the  world — loud,  soft,  and  all  is  said  ; 
Give  it  to  me  to  use  !     I  mix  it  with  two  in  my  thought, 
And,  there  !   ye  have  heard  and  seen,  consider  and  bow  the 

head  !  " 

It  is  curious  that  with  Browning's  familiarity  with 
the  forms  of  art  and  the  actual  struggle  of  the  creat- 
ive impulse  to  express  itself  through  various  resisting 
mediums,  he  should  have  paid  so  little  attention  to 
the  important  element  of  composition  in  his  own 
art.  Of  compliance  with  certain  great  recognised 
laws  underlying  all  artistic  performance,  obedience 
to  which  made  Michelangelo's  painting  seem  to 
Gounod  like  the  music  of  the  Sistine  Chapel,  he 
has  less  than  any  other  equally  gifted  poet.  It  has 
been  said  of  him  that  his  art  does  not  represent  a 
scene  but  a  gallery,  and  that  the  only  unity  it  may 
have  belongs  not  to  his  figures,  but  to  his  thought 
about  them  ;  and  the  same  may  be  said  of  many  of 
his  single  poems.  The  qualities  of  order,  repetition, 
balance,  abstract  form,  are  put  into  his  compositions 
or  left  out  at  will.  His  aim  often  is  not  so  much 
self-expression  through  artistic  methods  as  self-ex- 
pression by  any  method  whatsoever,  the  result  of 
which  must  necessarily  be  the  defeat  of  the  very 


poems  on  HDusic  ant)  painting,  183 

object  desired.  When  in  his  eagerness  to  emphasise 
and  impress  his  meaning  he  throws  to  the  winds  the 
real  design,  losing  proportion,  selection,  structure, 
even  the  meaning  is  apt  to  escape  the  average  reader 
and  hardly  repays  the  persistent  student.  Take  such 
a  passage  as  this  from  Fifine  at  the  Fair : 

I  search  but  cannot  see 
What  purpose  serves  the  soul  that  strives,  or  world  it  tries 
Conclusions  with,  unless  the  fruit  of  victories 
Stay,  one  and  all,  stored  up  and  guaranteed  its  own 
Forever,  by  some  mode  whereby  shall  be  made  known 
The  gain  of  every  life.     Death  reads  the  title  clear — 
What  each  soul  for  itself  conquered  from  out  things  here  ; 
Since,  in  the  seeing  soul,  all  worth  lies,  I  assert, — 
And  naught  i'  the  world,    which,   save  for  the  soul  that  sees, 

inert 
Was,  is,  and  would  be  ever, — stuff  for  transmuting — null 
And  void  until  man's  breath  evol<e  the  beautiful — 
But,  touched  aright,  prompt  yields  each  particle  its  tongue 
Of  elemental  flame, — no  matter  whence  flame  sprung, 
From  gums  and  spice,  or  else  from  straw  and  rottenness, 
So  long  as  soul  has  power  to  make  them  burn,  express 
What  lights  and  warms  henceforth,  leaves  only  ash  behind 
Howe'er  the  chance  ;  if  soul  be  privileged  to  find 
Food  so  soon,  that  by  first  snatch  of  eye,  suck  of  breath, 
It  can  absorb  pure  life  ;  or  rather,  meeting  death 
r  the  shape  of  ugliness,  by  fortunate  recoil 
So  put  on  its  resource,  it  finds  therein  a  foil 
For  a  new  birth  of  life,  the  challenged  soul's  response 
To  ugliness  and  death, — creation  for  the  nonce. 

The  philosophy  is  not  difficult,  however  specious. 
It  is  the  familiar  contention  that  the  soul  may  grow 
by  evil  as  by  good,  its  flame  may  feed  on  straw  and 
rottenness  as  on  gums  and  spices  ;  but  the  mind  is 


1 84  Browning. 

so  weary  of  the  reiteration  of  the  thought  and  the 
formlessness  of  the  composition,  that  it  actually  lets 
go  the  idea  in  its  efforts  to  grasp  it — in  other  words, 
the  idea  moves  about  so  restlessly  in  its  fever  of 
anxiety  that  it  eludes  the  intelligence  to  which  it  is 
addressed.  This  is  not  nervous  strength — it  is  more 
like  St.  Vitus's  dance. 

Another  way  in  which  Browning  frequently  defies 
the  repose  of  artistic  form  is  in  the  interruption  of  a 
large  conception  by  accidental  lesser  thoughts.  In 
contrasting  the  work  of  Millet  with  that  of  more 
ineffectual  painters  Mr.  John  La  Farge  writes  : 

"  Compare  the  fateful  look  of  one  of  Millet's  fig- 
ures, with  the  accidental  haphazard  appearance  of  a 
figure  of  what  might  be  the  same  peasant  doing 
the  same  thing,  in  the  work  of  smaller  artists — if 
indeed  it  be  quite  fair  to  compare  them,  because  not 
seldom  the  weakness  of  observation  runs  through 
every  detail  of  the  painting  of  the  smaller  man. 

''  Not  seldom  the  peasant  himself,  the  subject  of 
the  picture,  does  not  make  his  traditional  gestures  in 
a  full  and  complete  manner :  as  also,  not  seldom, 
does  the  animal  (who  is,  however,  yet  nearer  to  the 
law  of  nature)  step  poorly,  stand  poorly,  make  a 
deficient  equation.  The  reign  of  accident,  of  contra- 
diction, runs  into  and  interferes  with  the  government 
of  law  which  we  are  looking  for.  Notice  how  in 
the  reflection  of  the  world  of  sound  by  the  art  of 
music,  the  musician  does  not  seek  to  represent  its 
possible  violations,  its  breaks  of  harmony." 


IPoems  on  flDuelc  an^  painting.  185 

Too  often  Browning's  poetry  has  this  ''acci- 
dental, haphazard  appearance,"  the  reign  of  contra- 
diction interfering  sadly  with  the  government  of  law. 
His  thought  is  full  of  interruptions  that  sometimes 
spur  the  mind  but  oftener  confuse  it.  If,  like  Landor, 
he  had  "  weeded  out  and  weeded  out,"  and  "  carted 
off  loads  "  of  rejected  lines,  he  need  not  have  feared 
losing  the  originality  to  which  he  sacrificed  much, 
for  it  is  true,  as  has  been  suggested,  that  when  he 
most  nearly  approaches  the  methods  used  by  the 
masters  of  the  past  his  personal  view  of  life  is  clear- 
est to  us,  and  we  get  most  adequately  the  charm  and 
ardour  and  depth  of  his  individual  thought. 

There  is  no  poem  of  his  that  celebrates  the  auster- 
ity of  art  like  that  of  Matthew  Arnold  on  Giacapone 
di  Todi,  or  that  of  Gautier  at  the  end  of  his  Emaiix 
et  Camees,  yet  where  among  his  poems  we  find 
instances  of  such  mingled  restraint  and  flexibility, — 
as  in  The  Lost  Mistress  or  My  Star,  for  example, — 
we  realise  the  perfection  of  execution  he  might  have 
attained  had  he  chosen  always  to  present  his  gift  in 
the  manner  of  the  Japanese — enclosed  in  a  wrapping 
of  priceless  workmanship. 


CHAPTER  X. 
LATER  LIFE. 

AFTER  his  wife's  death  in  1861  Browning  went 
back  to  England  to  educate  his  son,  stopping 
for  a  couple  of  months  at  St.  Enogat  in 
France  "to  get  right  again,"  before  rearranging  his 
scheme  of  living. 

Although  he  died  in  Italy,  he  never  again  saw 
Florence,  and  he  wrote  to  a  friend  "  no  more  house- 
keeping for  me,  even  with  my  family.  I  shall  grow, 
still,  1  hope — but  my  root  is  taken  and  remains." 
His  nature  was  too  energetic,  however,  as  well  as 
too  courageous  to  let  him  keep  long  aloof  from  men 
and  women,  and  in  spite  of  this  decision  we  soon 
hear  of  him  in  his  house  at  Warwick  Crescent,  occu- 
pied more  or  less  strenuously  with  the  boy's  educa- 
tion, and  becoming  gradually  drawn  to  the  interests 
of  a  stimulating  social  life. 

The  first  years  were  inevitably  dreary,  and  al- 
though his  poetry  shows  no  great  regard  for  beauty 
as  an  important  element  in  his  enjoyment  of  environ- 
ment, Mrs.  Orr  declares  that  the  change  from  the 

186 


later  Xife.  187 

loveliness  of  Florence  to  the  ugliness  of  London  had 
upon  him  a  most  depressing  effect.  So  far  as  he 
could  he  made  his  house  a  model  of  the  Casa  Guidi. 
In  the  drawing-room  were  the  same  antique  Italian 
furniture,  the  carved  chairs  and  sofas  covered  with 
green  velvet,  the  rare  tapestries,  and  the  marble 
busts  by  Story  of  himself,  his  wife,  and  their  little 
boy. 

Here  he  naturally  plunged  into  work,  but  nothing 
new  was  published  until  Dramatis  Personce  appeared 
in  1864.  By  this  time  he  was  ''going  about  and 
showing  himself  to  be  alive,"  and  his  reputation  was 
growing,  especially  among  the  young  men  of  Ox- 
ford and  Cambridge,  who,  to  use  his  own  words, 
''  did  not  mind  the  conventionalities  of  ignoring  one 
and  seeing  everything  in  another."  There  was 
never  anyone  more  accessible  to  his  fellows,  or  more 
to  be  depended  upon  for  the  impulse  to  give  pleasure. 
He  was  ''the  proper  friend-making,  everywhere 
friend-fmding  soul." 

Mr.  Gosse  says  of  him  : 

''The  most  part  of  men  of  genius  look  upon  an 
unknown  comer  as  certainly  a  bore,  and  probably  an 
enemy,  but  to  Robert  Browning  the  whole  world 
was  full  of  vague  possibilities  of  friendship.  No  one 
resented  more  keenly  an  unpleasant  specimen  of 
humanity,  no  one  could  snub  more  royally  at  need, 
no  one  was — certain  premises  being  established — 
more  ruthless  in  administering  the  coup  de  grace ; 
but  then  his  surprise  gave  weight  to  his  indignation. 


1 88  Browning. 

He  had  assumed  a  new  acquaintance  to  be  a  good 
fellow,  and  behold  !  against  all  ordinary  experience, 
he  had  turned  out  to  be  a  bore  or  a  sneak.  Sudden, 
irreparable  chastisement  must  fall  on  one  who  had 
proved  the  poet's  optimism  to  be  at  fault." 

Like  many  others,  however,  who  possess  the  gift 
of  frankness,  he  reserved  his  true  reserve,  and  the 
free,  generous  manner  with  which  he  met  the  world 
covered  a  reticence  much  too  deep  to  be  paraded. 
Most  of  his  friends  appear  to  have  reached  a  certain 
point  of  intimacy  and  there  to  have  stopped.  As  he 
became  more  and  more  a  man  of  the  world,  getting 
through  countless  social  engagements  with  gayety, 
and  ease,  and  simplicity,  he  lived  consistently  upon 
the  surface,  lightly  interested  in  many  things,  and 
entirely  ready  to  conclude  them  when  the  term  of 
his  years  was  completed. 

Much  of  his  effusiveness  of  manner  seems  to 
have  come  from  intense  physical  nervousness,  en- 
hanced by  the  difficulty  he  found  in  remembering 
names  and  faces,  a  curious  contrast  to  the  ease  with 
which  he  remembered  everything  else.  ''  1  am 
nervous  to  such  a  degree,"  he  said  of  himself,  ''that 
1  might  fancy  I  could  not  enter  a  drawing-room,  if  I 
did  not  know  from  long  experience  that  1  can  do  it." 
A  public  speech  was  impossible  to  him.  Only  one  is 
recorded  and  that  one  an  example  of  clumsy  brevity. 
It  was  made  at  the  tercentenary  of  Edinburgh  Uni- 
versity in  1884,  where  he  was  present  as  a  guest. 
The  account  of  this  occasion  in  the  Times  gives  a 


Xater  %\tc.  189 

pleasant,  unpretentious  picture  of  his  frank  delight  at 
the  enthusiasm  with  which  he  was  greeted  : 

''The  students  arrived  early,"  the  correspondent 
writes,  "and  packed  themselves  in  their  allotted 
space.  During  the  hour  or  more  of  waiting  they  had 
voluntarily  subjected  themselves  to,  they  were  sur- 
prised and  gratified  to  find  that  a  neatly  dressed  old 
gentleman,  with  a  snow-white  head  and  beard,  had 
from  his  place  on  the  platform  elected  to  spend  the 
waiting  hour  with  them.  At  first  they  assumed 
that  the  venerable  visitor  had  made  a  mistake,  and 
they  laughed  heartily  but  good-naturedly  as  they 
thought  of  the  disappointment  that  was  in  store  for 
him.  But  by  and  by,  as  it  was  seen  that  the  old 
man  was  genuinely  interested  in  the  impromptu 
preliminary  proceedings,  and  seemed  unreservedly  to 
participate  in  all  the  innocent  fun  in  which  the 
students  indulged,  a  kindlier  feeling  was  shown  to- 
wards him,  and  the  young  men  seemed  to  find 
pleasure  in  making  efforts  to  afford  entertainment  for 
their  appreciative  listener  and  observer  on  the  plat- 
form. By  and  by  the  whisper  passed  from  bench  to 
bench  that  the  faultlessly  attired,  benignant-looking, 
white-haired  visitor  and  observer  was  no  other  than 
Robert  Browning ;  and  the  students,  as  if  ashamed 
of  the  liberties  they  had  been  taking  with  him,  re- 
lapsed into  respectful,  reverent  silence,  until  one 
daring  admirer  burst  out  with  a  loud  call,  'Three 
cheers  for  Browning ! '  Instantly  the  students,  spring- 
ing to  their  feet,  responded  to  the  call  with  stentorian 


I90  Brownlna* 

cheers ;  while  the  poet,  flushing  and  embarrassed, 
yet  evidently  highly  gratified,  bowed  his  acknowledg- 
ments, and  then  turned  to  find  a  less  conspicuous  seat. 
Having  selected  his  place  of  retreat,  he  was,  how- 
ever, amid  the  thundering  plaudits  of  the  students, 
conducted  back  to  his  old  place,  the  master  of 
ceremonies  on  the  platform  having  apparently  ex- 
plained that  all  the  seats  were  allotted,  and  no  guest 
could  change  his  place  without  causing  confusion. 
The  poet,  however,  soon  recovered  his  composure  as 
the  places  beside  him  became  more  occupied,  some- 
times chatting  pleasantly  with  the  gentlemen  near 
him,  at  other  times  keeping  time  with  his  foot  or 
hand  to  the  students '  songs,  and  every  now  and  again 
acknowledging  with  unconcealed  pleasure  the  friendly 
and  affectionate  cheers  of  his  young  admirers. 

''All  through  the  proceedings  he  continued  the 
leading  favourite.  Speeches  of  exceptional  interest, 
beauty,  and  power  were  delivered  by  Sir  Stafford 
Northcote,  Mr.  Lowell,  and  others ;  but  still  the  cry 
was  for  'Browning,'  and  at  last  the  poet  rose  to  his 
feet.     He  said  : 

"  '  Gentlemen,  the  utter  surprise  with  which  this 
demonstration  fills  me,  and  the  embarrassment  con- 
sequent upon  it,  must  be  my  excuse  for  not  attempt- 
ing to  do  more  adequately  what  I  am  afraid  would  in 
any  case  be  done  by  me  most  imperfectly.  I  am 
usually  accused  of  my  writings  being  unintelligible. 
Let  me,  for  once,  attempt  to  be  intelligible  indeed  by 
saying  that  I  feel  thoroughly  grateful  to  you  for  the 


Xater  Xife.  19  t 

kindness  which,  not  only  on  this  occasion,  but  during 
the  last  two  or  three  days,  I  have  experienced.  I 
shall  consider  this  to  the  end  of  my  life  one  of  the 
proudest  days  I  have  spent.  The  recognition  you 
have  given  me  and  all  your  kindness  I  shall  never 
forget.'" 

If  he  posed  at  all,  he  posed  as  being  one  of  the 
common  herd,  without  exclusiveness  or  pedantry 
or  poetic  sensibility,  and  nothing  pleased  him  better 
than  to  furnish  some  absolutely  simple  explanation 
of  a  poem  into  which  complicated  allegory  had  been 
read.  This  fancy  for  avoiding  the  least  touch  of 
superiority  in  manner,  the  least  hint  that  he  was 
viewing  his  companions  de  baut  en  has,  led  him  into 
a  certain  superficiality  of  plainness  at  odds  with  his 
natural  taste  for  the  grotesque. 

From  Mr.  Gosse  again  we  get  this  vivid  picture  of 
his  manner  when  he  dared  to  be  as  peculiar  as  he  was  : 

''His  private  conversation  was  a  very  different 
thing  from  his  talk  over  the  dinner-table  or  in  a 
picture-gallery.  It  was  a  very  much  finer  phenome- 
non, and  one  which  tallied  far  better  with  the  noble 
breadth  of  his  genius.  To  a  single  listener  with 
whom  he  was  on  familiar  terms,  the  Browning  of  his 
own  study  was  to  the  Browning  of  a  dinner  party  as 
a  tiger  is  to  a  domestic  cat.  In  such  conversation  his 
natural  strength  came  out.  His  talk  assumed  the 
volume  and  the  tumult  of  a  cascade.  His  voice  rose 
to  a  shout,  sank  to  a  whisper,  ran  up  and  down  the 
gamut  of  conversational  melody.    Those  whom  he 


192  Browning. 

was  expecting  will  never  forget  his  welcome, — the 
loud  trumpet-note  from  the  other  end  of  the  passage, 
the  talk  already  in  full  flood  at  a  distance  of  twenty 
feet.  Then,  in  his  own  study  or  drawing-room, 
what  he  loved  was  to  capture  the  visitor  in  a  low 
arm-chair's  *  sofa-lap  of  leather,'  and  from  a  most 
unfair  advantage  of  height  to  tyrannise,  to  walk 
around  the  victim,  in  front,  behind,  on  this  side,  on 
that,  weaving  magic  circles,  now  with  gesticulat- 
ing arms  thrown  high,  now  grovelling  on  the 
floor  to  fmd  some  reference  in  a  folio,  talking  all 
the  while,  a  redundant  turmoil  of  thoughts,  fancies, 
and  reminiscences  flowing  from  those  generous  lips. 
To  think  of  it  is  to  conjure  up  an  image  of  intel- 
lectual vigour,  armed  at  every  point,  but  overflow- 
ing, none  the  less,  with  the  geniality  of  strength." 

It  would  be  said  of  him  that  he  was  immensely 
natural,  because  he  strove  to  be  like  other  people, 
and  to  meet  them  on  their  own  ground,  in  the 
light  of  his  letters  to  Miss  Barrett  we  see,  however, 
that  the  imagination,  which  in  his  work  was  let 
loose  among  abnormal  types  of  humanity,  constantly 
worked  within  him,  keeping  him  conscious  of  the 
prodigious  strangeness  of  life,  and  occupied  in 
thought  with  interrogation  of  its  paradoxes  and  ir- 
regularities ;  a  tendency  of  mind  discreetly  dissem- 
bled by  him  at  his  dinners  and  receptions.  In  his 
notes  on  the  conversation  of  famous  Englishmen, 
Mr.  Smalley  gave  the  general  impression  of  his 
''company  manner." 


Xater  %\tc,  193 

"  Mr.  Browning  is  not  quite  three  years  younger 
than  Mr.  Gladstone,"  he  said,  "and,  like  the  states- 
man, the  poet  has  the  secret  of  perpetual  youth. 
If  you  inquire  in  different  companies  you  will  hear 
different  accounts  of  Mr.  Browning  as  a  talker.  He 
is  the  opposite  of  Mr.  Gladstone  in  this :  that  he 
allows  his  conversation  to  be  influenced  by  the  com- 
pany. The  statesman  takes  his  own  line  across 
country.  The  poet  will,  now  and  then,  amble 
through  gates  and  wait  for  a  lead  over  a  gap  in 
a  hedge,  and  even  go  round  by  the  public  high- 
way. He  is  capable  of  talking  as  long,  and  with 
as  much  energy,  on  that  truly  British  subject,  the 
weather,  as  the  most  unimaginative  of  Philistines. 
For  his  best  talk  he  wants  a  fit  audience.  The 
audience  may  consist  of  only  one,  but  the  one 
must  be  appreciative.  Other  things  being  equal, 
he  prefers,  I  fancy,  more  than  one.  ...  It  de- 
pends upon  his  host  or  hostess  or  on  their  guest, 
in  what  character  he  appears.  Their  evening  may  be 
spent  with  Browning  the  poet,  or  with  Browning 
the  metaphysician,  or  with  Browning  the  man  of 
letters,  of  music,  of  art,  or,  finally,  with  Browning 
the  man  of  the  world.  They  have,  however,  at 
least  one  thing  in  common— these  various  Brown- 
ings :  each  of  them  is  a  remarkable  talker.  If  you 
have  the  good  luck  to  meet  two  of  them,  or  even 
all  of  them,  you  may  ponder  a  little  over  the  prob- 
lem of  psychological  identity." 

In  spite  of  this  ability  to  change  in  accordance 


194  Browning. 

with  his  surroundings,  if  Browning  had  been  asked 
what  trait  he  valued  most  highly  he  would  probably 
have  said  sincerity ;  and  it  was  certainly  sincerity, 
not  the  impulse  to  flatter,  that  marked  his  attitude 
toward  those  about  him,  and  prompted  him  to  ex- 
pressions of  feeling  much  more  ardent  than  the  Eng- 
lish race  are  prone  to.  This  peculiarity,  together 
with  his  intense  admiration  of  genius  in  his  fellow- 
craftsmen,  is  shown  in  the  dedications  of  his  work. 
For  Colombe's  Birthday,  he  wrote  : 

No  one  loves  and  honours  Barry 

Cornwall  more  than 

Does  Robert  Browning, 

Who,  having  nothing  better  than  this  play  to 

Give  him  in  proof  it. 

Must  say  so. 

Balaustion's  Adventure  is  dedicated  to  the  Count- 
ess Cowper,  and  the  inscription  begins  like  a  familiar 
letter  : 

'Mf  1  mention  the  simple  truth,  that  this  poem 
absolutely  owes  its  existence  to  you, — who  not  only 
suggested,  but  imposed  on  me  as  a  task  what  has 
proved  the  most  delightful  of  May-month  amuse- 
ments,— I  shall  seem  honest  indeed,  but  hardly 
prudent ;  for  how  good  and  beautiful  ought  such  a 
poem  to  be  ! " 

And  the  finest  of  the  dedications  is  that  of  the 
1887  volume  of  Selections  to  the  poet  who  is  com- 
monly called  his  "  rival  "—to 


Xater  %\tc.  195 

ALFRED  TENNYSON 

In  poetry — illustrious  and  consummate, 
In  friendship — noble  and  sincere. 

Still  more  characteristic  is  the  following  letter, 
written  to  Tennyson  for  his  eightieth  birthday  : 

"29  De  Vere  Gardens,  W.,  August  5,  1889. 

"  My  dear  Tennyson, — To-morrow  is  your  birth- 
day— indeed  a  memorable  one.  Let  me  say  I  asso- 
ciate myself  with  the  universal  pride  of  our  country 
in  your  glory,  and  in  its  hope  that  for  many  and 
many  a  year  we  may  have  your  very  self  among 
us— secure  that  your  poetry  will  be  a  wonder  and 
delight  to  all  those  appointed  to  come  after.  And 
for  my  own  part,  let  me  further  say,  I  have  loved 
you  dearly.     May  God  bless  you  and  yours  ! 

"At  no  moment  from  the  first  to  the  last  of  my 
acquaintance  with  your  works,  or  friendship  with 
yourself,  have  I  had  any  other  feeling,  expressed 
or  kept  silent,  than  this  which  an  opportunity  allows 
me  to  utter — that  1  am  and  ever  shall  be,  my  dear 
Tennyson,  admiringly  and  affectionately  yours, 

''  Robert  Browning." 

Perhaps  his  freedom  from  petty  animosities  and 
grudges  is  best  seen,  however,  in  his  words  about 
Macready,  whose  treatment  of  The  Blot  in  the  'Scut- 
cheon years  before  had  ruined  the  play  :  "1  found 
Macready  as  I  left  him — and  happily  after  a  long 
interval  resumed  him,  so  to  speak— one  of  the  most 


196  Browning, 

admirable  and,  indeed,  fascinating  characters  I  have 
ever  known,  somewhat  too  sensitive  for  his  own 
happiness,  and  much  too  impulsive  for  invariable 
consistency  with  his  nobler  moods." 

This  gentleness  and  leniency  in  judgment  con- 
trasts oddly  with  Browning's  extraordinarily  vigor- 
ous temperament  and  prodigious  activity  and  vitality. 
Like  Lowell  he  frequently  seems  "not  to  resemble 
himself"  at  all ;  the  one  Browning  has  such  bound- 
less confidence  in  mankind,  such  delicate  intuitions, 
such  sweetness  of  temper  and  boyishness  of  man- 
ner, such  opulent  enjoyment  of  the  luxuries  and 
graces  of  life  ;  the  other  Browning  so  keen  a  sense 
of  the  coarseness  and  brutality  in  men's  souls,  so 
accurate  a  knowledge  of  insincerities  and  vulgar- 
ities, and  such  power  of  detestable  expression  when 
touched  by  rage,  as  the  sonnet  to  Fitz  Gerald  most 
unhappily  testifies. 

In  the  Life  and  Letters  of  Edward  Fit{  Gerald  this 
passage  was  discovered  by  Browning  :  ''  Mrs.  Brown- 
ing's death  is  rather  a  relief  to  me,  1  must  say  :  no 
more  Aurora  Leighs,  thank  God  !  A  woman  of  real 
genius,  1  know  ;  but  what  is  the  upshot  of  it  all ! 
She  and  her  sex  had  better  mind  the  kitchen  and  the 
children,  and  perhaps  the  poor.  Except  in  such 
things  as  little  novels,  leaving  that  which  men  do 
worse  or  not  at  all." 

In  the  first  heat  of  his  anger  Browning  wrote  and 
published  the  sonnet  beginning  : 

I  chanced  upon  a  new  book  yesterday  ; 


%ntcv  %\tc.  197 

which  has  finally  found  a  place  in  his  collected 
works.  He  never  more  perfectly  displayed  the  re- 
sult of  his  long  subserviency  to  colloquial  expression. 
Both  art  and  instinct  played  him  false  at  this  mo- 
ment of  indignant  excitement ;  and  the  fact  that  not 
even  his  most  sacred  feelings  were  safe  from  his 
most  profoundly  awkward  and  vulgar  diction,  his 
"  style  "  at  its  irritating  worst,  should  prove  at  least 
that  wilfulness  was  not  at  the  root  of  his  great  de- 
fects. His  sonnet  has  been  so  ardently  discussed  by 
some,  and  so  significantly  ignored  by  others,  that  an 
extract  from  one  of  his  letters  to  Dr.  Furnivall,  dis- 
closing his  own  point  of  view  after  reflection,  is 
rather  interesting : 

''As  to  my  own  utterance  after  receiving  unex- 
pectedly an  outrage,"  he  says,  "why,  like  all  im- 
pulsive actions,  once  the  impulse  over,  1  believe  1 
might  preferably  have  left  the  thing  to  its  proper 
contempt.  But  there  was  something  too  shocking 
in  a  man,  whom  my  wife  never  even  heard  of,  '  feel- 
ing relieved  at  her  death,  he  must  say ' — and  I  too 
said  what  I  must.  The  people  who  tell  you  'his 
opinion  was  really  on  the  woman  question,'  talk 
nonsense.  He  might  have  uttered  any  amount  of 
impertinence  about  women's  work  in  general,  and 
that  of  my  wife  in  particular,  without  getting  a  word 
out  of  me— but,  '  to  be  relieved  at  the  death  which 
would  stop  the  work,  thank  God  ! '  " 

Among  the  qualities  that  Browning  shared  with 
many  other  poets  was  a  faculty  of  forming  strong 


198  Brownlna- 

friendships  with  women.  They  sustained  him  dur- 
ing his  worst  weather,  and  brought  out  through  his 
letters  the  keen  susceptibility  and  undercurrent  of 
melancholy  kept  out  of  sight  in  his  intercourse  with 
men.  For  his  wife's  sister,  Miss  Arabel  Barrett,  he 
had  a  warm  affection,  and  her  feeling  for  him  was 
certainly  very  different  from  that  manifested  by  her 
brother  in  his  recently  published  letters.  The  poem. 
La  Saisia;(,  in  which  his  deepest  reflections  on  the 
possible  future  found  direct  and  full  expression,  is 
that  inspired  by  the  death  of  Anne  Egerton  Smith, 
who  seems  to  have  been  truly  an  intellectual  com- 
rade for  him.  The  pale  image  of  her  qualities  sug- 
gested by  the  allusions  in  the  poem  is  singularly 
attractive.  She  had  been  his  chief  companion 
and  sympathiser  in  his  musical  interests,  and  we 
learn  from  Mrs.  Orr's  biography  that  his  passion 
for  music  lapsed  into  absolute  quiescence  after  her 
death.  The  poem  itself,  however,  is  an  example 
of  the  detachment  that  marked  him  during  his 
later  life.  The  note  of  lamentation  is  hardly  heard 
in  it  and  the  pathos  of  the  sub'ect  is  but  faintly 
suggested. 

After  the  death  of  his  father  in  1866,  his  sister,  the 
''  Sarianna  "  of  Mrs.  Browning's  letters,  came  to  live 
with  him,  and  her  devotion  to  him  for  the  remaining 
three-and-twenty  years  of  his  life  finds  its  parallel  in 
that  of  Dorothy  Wordsworth  to  her  somewhat  more 
difficult  brother.  Browning  perhaps  could  never  have 
written  of  her  as  Wordsworth  of  Dorothy  : 


Xater  %\tc.  199 

She  gave  me  eyes,  she  gave  me  ears, 
And  humble  cares  and  delicate  fears, 
A  heart,  the  fountain  of  sweet  tears, 
And  love  and  faith  and  joy — 

At  all  events  he  never  did  write  of  her  in  any  way, 
it  being  no  part  of  his  plan  to  unfold  his  domestic  life 
in  verse  ;  but  he  obviously  depended  upon  her  for  the 
solicitous  affection  and  consideration  without  which 
a  being  of  his  temperament  must  genuinely  have 
suffered. 

Together  they  made  the  summer  journeys 
necessary  to  his  health  to  Brittany,  to  Nor- 
mandy, to  the  Saleve  district,  and  finally,  after 
an  absence  of  many  years,  back  to  Italy,  to  Asolo 
and  Venice. 

Brittany,  in  particular,  furnished  him  with  matter 
for  his  poems.  The  "land  of  beautiful  churches,  6f 
poetic  traditions,  sanctuary  of  the  legend,  cradle  of 
the  Druids,  still  celebrates  the  brave  deeds  of  her 
heroes  and  her  saints.  She  still  sings  the  old  songs 
to  her  little  ones.  Her  young  men  and  maidens  still 
dance  the  gavotte  at  the  pardons.  She  has  not  yet 
lost  her  faith  in  her  fairies.  To  her  simple  peasants 
the  animals  still  talk  on  Christmas  nights,  and  on 
the  eve  of  St.  Toussaint  the  dead  walk  in  solemn 
procession  through  the  fields.  The  table  stands,  has 
always  stood,  and  always  will  stand  by  the  one 
window,  and  the  benches  are  on  each  side.  The 
beggar  is  always  welcomed,  and  at  weddings  the 
custom  still  holds  for  the  bride  to  dance  with  the 


200  Browning. 

beggar  for  the  sake  of  the  good  luck  that  is  sure  to 
result."  ^ 

From  these  scenes  and  legends  he  drew  abundant 
inspiration.  At  Ste.  Marie,  near  Pornic  (already  as- 
sociated with  his  early  poem,  Gold  Hair),  he  saw  at 
the  typical  merry-making  the  gypsy  who  served  as  a 
model  for  his  Fifine,  and  the  poem  he  built  about  her 
audacious  figure  is  filled  with  charming  pictures  of 
the  lovely  region,  and  with  tales  of  Breton  supersti- 
tions. Here  also  he  wrote  James  Lee's  Wife,  sitting 
by  the  window  of  his  cottage,  with  the  little  church, 
the  fields,  the  few  houses,  and  the  sea  within  his 
range  of  vision,  and  ''  the  good  gigantic  smile  of  the 
brown  old  earth  "  in  cheerful  evidence. 

In  1886  he  was  in  Le  Croisic  in  lower  Brittany,  and 
there  he  wrote  the  stirring  poem,  HeroeRiel,  the  pro- 
ceeds of  which  he  sent  to  the  Paris  Relief  Fund  for 
the  aid  of  the  people  after  the  siege.  The  way  in 
which  he  came  to  choose  for  his  hero  the  modest 
sailor  who  took  as  his  reward  a  day's  holiday  with 
his  wife,  the  Belle  Aurore,  is  extremely  characteristic. 
At  San  Malo  he  found  the  name  of  Duguay-Trouin 
everywhere.  ''A  street  and  a  quay  bear  his  name, 
his  statue  stands  in  a  public  square,  and  his  portrait 
is  in  the  museum."  To  him  was  ascribed  the  glori- 
ous victory  of  the  French  fleet  in  1692,  but  while 
Browning  was  in  Croisic  he  made  up  his  mind  that 
the  true  hero  was  Herve  Riel  of  that  place.     He 

'  See  article  on  "  Browning's  Summers  in  Brittany  "  in  The  Century  Magazine 
for  September,  1897. 


%ater  Olife*  201 

searched  the  records  of  the  admiralty  and  established 
the  fact,  then,  having  found  another  neglected  name 
that  properly  belonged  to  immortality,  he  speedily 
wrote  his  poem  in  honour  of  it.  The  Two  Poets  of 
Croisic  also  is  written  in  commemoration  of  two 
obscure  citizens  of  the  little  town. 

From  1866  until  1870  the  Brownings  went  to  St. 
Aubin,  Normandy,  where  they  had  the  companion- 
ship of  M.  Milsand,  Browning's  valued  critic  and  still 
more  valued  friend,  of  whom  he  wrote  : 

Talk  to  him  for  five  minutes, 
Nonsense,  sense,  no  matter  what    .     .     . 
There  he  stands,  reads  an  English  newspaper, 
Stock  still,  and  now  again  upon  the  move 
Paces  the  beach,  to  taste  the  spring  like  you 
(Since  both  are  human  beings  in  God's  eyes)  : 
That  man  will  read  you  rightly  head  to  foot. 
He  knows  more  and  loves  better  than  the  world 
That  never  heard  his  name  and  never  may. 
What  hinders  that  my  heart  relieve  itself  ! 
"  O  friend  !  who  makest  warm  my  wintry  world, 
And  wise  my  heaven,  if  there  we  consort  too." 

The  Red  Cotton  Night-Cap  Country  was  written  at 
St.  Aubin  and  dedicated  to  Miss  Thackeray,  who  was 
there  at  the  time,  and  who  suggested  the  evil  name 
of  the  poem  by  her  choice  of  White  Cotton  Night-Cap 
Country  as  the  title  of  a  story.  Near  the  beginning 
of  the  poem  is  Browning's  description  of  his  cottage : 

That,  just  behind  you,  is  mine  own  hired  house: 
With  right  of  pathway  through  the  field  in  front, 
No  prejudice  to  all  its  growth  unsheaved 
Of  emerald  luzern  bursting  into  blue. 


202  Browning. 

Be  sure  I  keep  the  path  that  hugs  the  wall, 

Of  mornings,  as  I  pad  from  gate  to  gate  ! 

Yon  yellow — what  if  not  wild  mustard  flower  ? 

Here  life  was  a  mingling  of  rusticity  pure  and 
simple,  and  the  best  of  cultivation.  On  Sundays  the 
Brownings  and  the  Milsands  went  to  the  little  Pro- 
testant chapel  with  their  neighbour,  a  young  Hugue- 
not peasant ;  in  the  mornings  Browning  paced  the 
Norman  beach  with  his  Greek  copy  of  Homer ;  if  a 
luncheon  was  given  to  their  friends  he  was  ready  to 
act  as  waiter ;  for  the  rest  he  had  a  quiet  atmosphere 
in  which  to  write  and  the  stimulus  of  Milsand's 
original  and  eager  mind. 

Such  summer  wanderings  as  these  he  vastly 
preferred  to  the  fashionable  round  of  country-house 
visiting,  although  for  a  time  we  hear  of  him  at  places 
like  Alton  Towers  and  Beauclere  Castle. 

In  the  meantime  his  town  life  grew  steadily  more 
complicated,  and  he  paid  his  price  for  his  increasing 
popularity.  He  was  nominated  to  the  Rectorship  of 
the  University  of  Glasgow  and  to  that  of  St.  Andrews, 
the  first  Rector  to  be  "  chosen  by  the  undivided  suf- 
frage of  any  Scottish  University."  These  offices  he 
declined.  In  1879  he  received  the  Cambridge  degree 
of  LL.D.,  and  in  1882  the  Oxford  D.C.L.,  and  in 
1884  the  LL.D.  of  the  University  of  Edinburgh. 

Not  a  university  man  himself,  the  life  of  the  uni- 
versities made  a  strong  appeal  to  him,  and  his  visits 
to  Oxford  and  Cambridge  were  made  with  zest. 
When  he  took  his  degree  at  the  former  place,  the 


Xater  Xlfe.  203 

students  marked  his  advent  by  lowering  a  red  cotton 
night-cap  upon  his  head.  This  levity  was  resented 
by  one  of  his  friends  ;  but  he  himself  took  it  in  ex- 
cellent part,  assuring  his  advocate  that  the  "  harmless 
drolleries  "  of  the  young  men  were  licensed  by  im- 
memorial usage  ;  and  that  once  there  was  a  regularly 
appointed  jester  "  whose  business  it  was  to  jibe  and 
jeer  at  the  honoured  ones,  by  way  of  reminder  that 
all  human  glories  are  merely  gilded  bubbles  and 
must  not  be  fancied  metal." 

The  "gilded  bubbles  "that  he  most  appreciated 
were  those  honours  that  are  associated  with  genius, 
or  with  a  high  degree  of  cultivation  ;  and  at  these  he 
did  not  himself  jibe  or  jeer.  His  period  of  hero-wor- 
ship never  entirely  waned,  and  his  reverence  for 
poets  who  succeeded  in  impressing  themselves  upon 
their  generation  is  indicated  by  his  making  his  little 
boy  touch  Beranger  as  he  passed  him  in  the  streets 
of  Paris,  that  he  might  be  able  to  say  he  had  touched 
a  great  poet. 

His  appearance  during  the  later  years  of  his  life 
was  one  of  undiminished  vitality  ;  his  noble  grey 
head  was  set  on  a  remarkably  sturdy  form,  and  his 
clear,  keen  eyes  maintained  their  brightness.  He 
had  not  the  ruddy  English  complexion,  but  a  colour 
that  has  been  described  as  the  tint  of  old  ivory.  His 
voice  continued  genial  and  ringing  to  the  last. 

His  mental  activity  increased  instead  of  diminish- 
ing, and  during  the  decade  between  1868,  when 
The  Ring  and  the  Book  was  published,  and  1879, 


204  Browning. 

when  Dramatic  Idyls  appeared,  he  wrote  the  seven 
long  poems,  Balaustion's  Adventure,  Prince  Hohen- 
stiel  Schwangan,  Fifine  at  the  Fair,  Red  Cotton  Night- 
cap Country,  Aristophanes'  Apologv,  The  Inn  Album, 
and  The  Agamemnon  of  /Eschylus,  besides  the  poems 
of  the  Pacchiarotto  volume  and  La  Saisiai. 

In  his  methods  of  work  he  became  increasingly 
methodical.  He  wrote  on  an  average  so  much  a  day, 
and  his  work  was  finished  at  the  date  he  set  for 
himself.  In  building  up  his  plots  he  was  rapid  and 
definite.  The  story  of  The  Inn  Album  was  decided 
upon  and  constructed  in  a  single  morning,  to  be 
carried  out  precisely  as  it  was  planned  ;  and  many 
anecdotes  are  told  of  him  showing  how  vividly  and 
instantly  the  scheme  of  his  poem,  long  or  short, 
sprang  up  in  his  mind. 

Once,  having  told  the  story  of  a  young  artist 
who,  disappointed  at  failing  to  receive  a  prize  for 
which  he  had  competed,  broke  his  ivories  and 
burned  his  brushes,  and  forswore  his  art  forever,  he 
suddenly  realised  the  poetic  possibilities  of  the  cir- 
cumstances and  immediately  blocked  out  a  poem, 
suggesting  finally  the  ''  non-obvious  or  inverted 
moral  of  the  whole,  in  which  the  act  of  spirited 
defiance  was  shown  to  be,  really,  an  act  of  tame 
renunciation,  the  poverty  of  the  artist's  spirit  being 
proved  in  his  eagerness  to  snatch,  even  though  it 
were  by  honest  merit,  a  benefit  simply  material." 
He  said  he  had  never  thought  of  the  subject  before 
as  appropriate  to  a  poem,  but  ''he  left  it,  in  five 


Xater  %\tc.  205 

minutes,  needing  nothing  but  the  mere  outward  crust 
of  the  versification." 

His  manuscript  showed  few  corrections,  and 
twenty  or  thirty  lines  a  day  seemed  to  him  a  good 
rate  of  production. 

His  habit  was  to  rise  early  and  read  or  write 
before  breakfast ;  after  breakfast  to  give  an  hour  to 
the  newspapers,  then  to  retire  to  his  study  for  the 
remainder  of  the  morning,  much  of  which  must  have 
been  occupied  with  his  oppressive  correspondence, 
as  he  never  willingly  wrote  even  a  note  after  lunch- 
eon. Like  Tennyson  and  Landor  he  was  a  great 
walker  and  preferred  the  crowded  street  to  a  park 
or  suburb. 

During  the  last  ten  years  of  his  life  he  studied 
Spanish  and  Hebrew,  and  few  things  he  read  with 
as  much  pleasure  as  an  occasional  chapter  in  the 
Old  Testament.  Biography  he  read  with  avidity, 
and  he  liked  French  novels,  those  of  Balzac  in  par- 
ticular. English  novels  were  the  objects  of  his 
special  detestation.  His  splendid  eyesight  served 
him  to  the  last,  and  to  the  last  he  abused  it  with 
calm  disregard  of  consequences,  reading  old  books 
and  faded  manuscripts  in  the  perilous  half-light 
of  late  afternoon. 

In  1887  he  was  moved  by  a  curious  impulse 
to  begin  life  over  again  at  the  age  of  seventy-five. 
For  nearly  a  quarter  of  a  century  he  had  lived  in 
Warwick  Crescent,  chafing  more  or  less  at  the  dis- 
advantages of  the  house  and  situation,  and  failing 


2o6  Browning. 

to  perceive  any  opportunity  for  change.  Then,  two 
years  before  his  death,  he  fixed  upon  De  Vere 
Gardens  as  a  suitable  location,  and  began  to  furnish 
his  new  home  with  antiquities  which  for  years  he 
had  been  storing  away  for  the  purpose.  He  put 
the  final  touch  to  the  decoration  of  the  rooms  just 
before  he  left  London  for  the  last  time ;  but  his 
library  was  never  entirely  arranged. 

About  this  time,  also,  he  began  revising  an  edi- 
tion of  his  poetry  issued  in  monthly  volumes ;  and 
Pauline  especially  came  under  his  reforming  hand, 
after  an  interval  of  more  than  fifty  years. 

He  went  to  Italy  in  1888,  and  again  in  1889,  stop- 
ping the  second  time  at  Asolo,'  where  he  found  the 

'The  following  letter,  quoted  by  Mr.  Curtis,  gives  an  admirable  picture  of 
Asolo  as  Browning  found  it  in  1889  : 

(From  The  Easy  Chair,  by  G.  W.  Curtis.  Copyright,  1891,  by  Harper  & 
Brothers.) 

"  I  have  bought  in  ancient  Asolo  a  narrow,  tall  tower  into  which,  in  this  last 
century  (very  early)  a  house  was  built,  and  this  curious  place  1  have  selected  for 
villeggiatura  when  the  scirocco  is  too  strong  in  Venice  for  health  or  comfort. 
It  was  here  that  Browning,  fifty  years  ago,  was  inspired  to  write  Sordello  and 
Pippa  Passes,  so  to  me  it  has  that  charm  added  to  many  others.  It  is  such 
a  rough  and  out-of-the-way  little  place  that  you  may  only  know  it  by  name. 
There  is  no  hotel,  no  railway,  no  factory,  no  sign  of  modern  civilisation.  It  is  on  a 
hill  which  has  an  ancient,  ruined  fortress  at  the  top,  and  was  an  old  Roman  settle- 
ment, with  the  usual  Roman  mise-en-scene,  baths,  amphitheatre,  etc.,  in  the  days  of 
Pliny,  who  somewhere  mentions  it. 

"  Near  my  tower,  which  is  built  in  the  ancient  wall  of  the  mediaeval  town,  is 
the  tower  of  Caterina  Cornaro,  and  one  sees  from  most  of  my  windows,  so  high 
are  they,  the  whole  Marca  Trevigiana,  with  its  tragic  and  dramatic  associations 
of  the  early  Middle  Ages ;  the  Ecceline,  the  Azzi,  the  incessant  wars  in  which 
towns  were  treated  by  the  tyrants  like  shuttlecocks  in  the  game  of  battledoor. 

"  Browning  and  his  sister  have  been  here  for  the  last  six  weeks,  and  you  may 
fancy  how  intensely  the  poet  enjoys  revisiting,  after  so  many  years,  the  scenes  of  his 
youthful  inspirations.  He  was  only  twenty-five  or  six  when  he  first  discovered 
Asolo.  .  .  .  Few  young  people  are  so  gay  and  cheerful  as  he  and  his  dear  old 
sister." 


s  ^ 


Xater  %itc.  207 

charm  of  his  old  associations  surprisingly  fresh  and 
potent,  in  spite  of  the  change  in  him  from  youth 
to  age,  from  rose-coloured  visions  to  clear  seeing. 
Both  charm  and  change  are  recognised  in  the  Pro- 
logue to  Asolando  : 

How  many  a  year,  my  Asolo, 

Since, — one  step  just  from  sea  to  land — 

I  found  you,  loved,  yet  feared  you  so — 
For  natural  objects  seemed  to  stand 

Palpably  fire-clothed  !     No — 

No  mastery  of  mine  o'er  these  ! 

Terror  with  beauty,  like  the  Bush 
Burning  but  unconsumed.     Bend  knees. 

Drop  eyes  to  earthward  !     Language  ?    Tush  ! 
Silence,  't  is  awe  decrees. 

And  now  ?    The  lambent  flame  is — where  ? 

Lost  from  the  naked  world  :  earth,  sky. 
Hill,  vale,  tree,  flower, — Italia's  rare 

O'er-running  beauty  crowds  the  eye — 
But  flame  ?    The  Bush  is  bare. 

At  the  end  of  October  he  joined  his  son  in  Venice, 
where  the  latter  recently  had  established  himself 
with  his  American  wife  in  the  Rezzonico  Palace  on 
the  Grand  Canal ;  the  only  large  palace  in  Venice 
which  had  not  been  stripped  of  its  statues,  ceilings, 
and  ornaments  to  fill  the  empty  purses  of  impover- 
ished owners. 

In  spite  of  the  lateness  of  the  season,  Browning 

Mr.  Curtis  withheld  the  name  of  the  writer  in  publishing  this  letter,  but 
it  was  possibly  Mrs.  Bronson,  who,  inspired  by  Browning's  description  of  Asolo, 
bought  a  house  built  into  the  old  city  wall,  and  made  this  last  visit  of  the  poet 
to  the  picturesque  but  uncomfortable  little  town  infinitely  more  agreeable  than  it 
could  otherwise  have  been. 


2o8  Browning. 

went  every  day  in  an  open  gondola  to  the  Lido, 
where,  walking  in  a  chill  fog,  he  took  cold  and 
quickly  succumbed  to  the  bronchial  and  asthmatic 
attack  that  followed,  dying  in  the  great  palace  on 
the  twelfth  of  December,  1889.  ''Venice  and  winter, 
hand  in  deadly  hand,"  destroyed  him  after  his  long 
stay  in  a  world  that  had  treated  him  upon  the  whole 
with  generosity,  and  had  been  treated  by  him  with 
loyal  affection  and  comprehension. 

George  Meredith,  whom  he  more  resembled  in 
the  character  of  his  genius  than  any  other  contem- 
porary writer,  wrote  truly  of  him  : 

Such  ending  is  not  Death  :  such  living  shows 

What  wide  illumination  brightness  sheds 

From  one  big  heart — to  conquer  man's  old  foes  : 

The  coward,  and  the  tyrant,  and  the  force 

Of  all  those  weedy  monsters  raising  heads 

Where  Song  is  murk  from  springs  of  turbid  source. 

He  had  himself  desired  to  be  buried  by  the  side 
of  his  wife,  should  he  die  in  Italy,  but  the  British 
public  loved  him  at  last,  and  the  wish  of  the  nation 
that  he  might  take  his  place  in  Westminster  Abbey 
was  deferred  to.  Thus  he,  who  had  always  been  so 
unassuming  and  plain,  was  carried  on  a  richly  de- 
corated barge,  bearing  at  the  prow  the  figure  of  an 
angel,  at  the  stern  that  of  a  lion,  across  the  lagoons 
of  the  city  to  the  island  of  St.  Michael,  and  thence 
was  taken  to  England,  whose  great  memorial  Abbey 
received  him. 

Although  a  heavy  fog  was  over  the  city  on  the 


Xater  Xife.  209 

day  of  his  funeral  services,  a  vast  crowd  gathered  in 
his  honour,  young  men  and  women  forming  a  sig- 
nificant proportion  of  it. 

The  music  chosen  for  the  services  was  chiefly 
that  which  has  been  used  in  the  Abbey  at  the  burial 
of  the  illustrious  dead  for  more  than  a  century  and  a 
half ;  but  the  anthem  following  the  lesson  was  com- 
posed by  Dr.  Bridge  as  a  setting  to  the  well-known 
words  of  Mrs.  Browning  : 

What  would  we  give  to  our  beloved  ? 
The  hero's  heart  to  be  unmoved, 

The  poet's  star-tuned  harp  to  sweep, 
The  patriot's  voice  to  teach  and  rouse, 
The  monarch's  crown  to  light  the  brows  ? 

"  He  giveth  His  beloved  sleep." 

O  earth,  so  full  of  dreary  noises  ! 
O  men,  with  wailing  in  your  voices  ! 

O  delved  gold,  the  wailers  heap  ! 
O  strife,  O  curse,  that  o'er  it  fall ! 
God  strikes  a  silence  through  you  all, 

And  "giveth  His  beloved  sleep." 

His  dews  drop  mutely  on  the  hill. 
His  cloud  above  it  saileth  still. 

Though  on  its  slopes  men  sow  and  reap  ; 
More  softly  than  the  dew  is  shed. 
Or  cloud  is  floated  overhead, 

"  He  giveth  His  beloved  sleep." 

Browning  was  buried  in  front  of  Chaucer's  tomb, 

near  Dryden's  monument,  and  after  the  committal 

the  whole  congregation  joined  the  choir  in  singing 

Watts's  familiar  hymn:  "O  God,  our  help  in  ages 

past." 
14 


2IO 


Browning, 


Thus  the  national  reward  of  genius  was  finally 
extended  to  him  of  whom  Swinburne  wrote  : 

O  spirit  of  man,  what  mystery  moves  in  thee 
That  he  might  know  not  of  in  spirit,  and  see 
The  heart  within  the  heart  that  seems  to  strive, 
The  life  within  the  life  that  seems  to  be, 
And  hear  through  ail  thy  storms  that  whirl  and  drive 
The  living  sound  of  all  men's  souls  alive. 


CHAPTER    XI. 
OPINIONS  OF  CONTEMPORARIES. 

TO  the  question,  '*  Will  his  poetry  live  ?  "  most 
of  Browning's  critics  reply  with  little  hesita- 
tion ;  but  the  range  is  wide  from  those  who 
think  no  jot  or  tittle  of  his  work  shall  pass  away  to 
those  who  claim  permanence  for  only  the  compara- 
tively few  poems  that  leap  with  vitality.  Mr.  Bir- 
rell,  recalling  the  work  of  his  middle  period, — that 
fortunate  period  when  ''for  the  first  time  and  the 
last  time  "  he  deigned  to  "  breathe  through  silver," — 
declares  that  we  ''cannot  think  of  him  and  the 
'  wormy  bed '  together.  He  is  so  unmistakably, 
deliciously  alive."  Perhaps  no  one  thinking  of  his 
later  poems, — of  The  Ring  and  the  Book,  of  Hohen- 
stiel  Schwa ngau,  of  The  Inn  Album,  of  Red  Cotton 
Night-cap  Country, — would  utter  precisely  this  sen- 
timent, although  there  are  not  lacking  disciples  who 
believe  one  or  another  of  these  the  masterpiece. 

Certainly  after  1868  something  had  departed  from 
his  style  that  formerly  had  given  it  what  Mr.  James 
calls  "that  slight  but  needful  thing— charm."    The 


212  Browning* 

qualities  that  correspond  to  light  and  warmth,  the 
quickening  influence  of  lines  into  which  the  reader 
plunges  with  something  like  the  sensation  of  breast- 
ing a  fine  surf,  are  so  far  gone  that  the  poetry  of  the 
later  period,  in  comparison  with  the  earlier,  seems 
suddenly  and  unexpectedly  struck  with  age. 

Not  that  individual  passages  cannot  be  found  to 
shame  such  a  statement,  but  the  power  to  write  of 
pure  emotion  without  first  passing  it  through  a  bath 
of  analytic  consideration  has  perceptibly  and  per- 
manently waned.  Take  this*  representative  passage 
from  Red  Cotton  Night-cap  Country,  in  which  two 
words  of  sufficiently  obvious  suggestion  are  discussed 
and  accounted  for  in  a  dozen  lines  : 

He  thought    .     .     . 

(Suppose  I  should  prefer  "He  said  "  } 

Along  with  every  act — and  speech  is  act — 

There  go  a  multitude  impalpable 

To  ordinary  human  faculty, 

The  thoughts  which  give  the  act  significance. 

Who  is  a  poet  needs  must  apprehend 

Alike  both  speech  and  thoughts  which  prompt  to  speak. 

Part  these  and  thought  withdraws  to  poetry  : 

Speech  is  reported  in  the  newspaper.) 

He  said,  then,  probably,  no  word  at  all, 

But  thought  as  follows  : 

After  a  certain  amount  of  this  particularity  of  de- 
finition a  reader  of ''ordinary  human  faculty"  can 
hardly  be  blamed  for  repeating  Hamlet's  ejacula- 
tion to  the  player  King,  especially  as  the  pains  spent 
on  such  detail  are  denied  to  the  parts  of  the  poem 
that  need  clearing  up,  that  impress  the  mind  as 


©pinions  of  Contemporaries,  213 

vaguely  as  a  conversation  between  strangers  about 
people  and  events  entirely  unfamiliar. 

In  a  reviev/  of  The  Inn  Album  Mr.  Henry  James 
indicates  with  much  precision  the  defects  that  grew 
upon  Browning  as  he  discarded  more  and  more  the 
rule  Dryden  formulated — that  an  author  'Ms  not  to 
write  all  that  he  can,  but  only  all  that  he  ought." 
Mr.  James  says  : 

"The  whole  picture  indefinably  appeals  to  the 
imagination.  There  is  something  very  curious  about 
it  and  even  arbitrary,  and  the  reader  wonders  how  it 
came,  in  the  poet's  mind,  to  take  exactly  that  shape. 
It  is  very  much  as  if  he  had  worked  backwards;  had 
seen  his  denouement  first,  as  a  mere  picture — the 
two  corpses  in  the  inn-parlour,  and  the  young  man 
and  his  cousin  confronted  above  them — and  then 
had  traced  back  the  possible  motives  and  sources. 
In  looking  for  these  Mr.  Browning  has  of  course  en- 
countered a  vast  number  of  deep  discriminations  and 
powerful  touches  of  portraitures.  He  deals  with 
human  character  as  a  chemist  with  his  acids  and 
alkalies,  and  while  he  mixes  his  coloured  fluids  in 
a  way  that  surprises  the  profane,  knows  perfectly 
well  what  he  is  about.  But  there  is  too  apt  to  be  in 
his  style  that  hiss  and  splutter  and  evil  aroma  which 
characterise  the  proceedings  of  the  laboratory.  The 
idea,  with  Mr.  Browning,  always  tumbles  out  into 
the  world  in  some  grotesque  hind-foremost  manner ; 
it  is  like  an  unruly  horse  backing  out  of  his  stall,  and 
stamping  and  plunging  as  he  comes.     His  thought 


214  Browning. 

knows  no  simple  stage — at  the  very  moment  of  its 
birth  it  is  a  terribly  complicated  affair.  We  frankly 
confess,  at  the  risk  of  being  accused  of  deplorable 
levity  of  mind,  that  we  have  found  this  want  of 
clearness,  of  explanation,  of  continuity,  of  at  least 
superficial  verisimilitude,  of  the  smooth,  the  easy, 
the  agreeable,  quite  fatal  to  our  enjoyment  of  The 
Inn  Album.  It  is  all  too  argumentative,  too  curious 
and  recondite. 

''The  people  talk  too  much  in  long  set  speeches, 
at  a  moment's  notice,  and  the  anomaly  so  common 
in  Browning,  that  the  talk  of  the  women  is  even 
more  rugged  and  insoluble  than  that  of  the  men,  is 
here  greatly  exaggerated.  We  are  reading  neither 
prose  nor  poetry  ;  it  is  too  real  for  the  ideal,  and  too 
ideal  for  the  real." 

In  this  last  sentence  we  find  the  just  complaint  to 
be  brought  against  all  the  long  narrative  poems  of 
Browning's  least  felicitous  and  most  productive 
decades.  They  are  irritating  as  poetry  because  the 
element  of  beauty  is  entirely  disregarded,  and  as  prose 
because  what  might  be  an  interesting  story  is  smoth- 
ered with  verbiage.  Yet,  they  are  certainly  no  pros- 
ier than  The  Excursion,  and  no  more  fatiguing  than 
Paradise  Regained,  each  written  in  the  decline  of 
a  great  genius  ;  and  it  is  somewhat  amusing  as  well 
as  suggestive  to  find  Mr.  Traill  loyally  attempting 
partially  to  shift  the  burden  of  Browning's  more 
cumbersome  and  unimpassioned  methods  upon  the 
Society  bearing  his  name. 


©pinions  of  Contemporaries.  215 

"Those  who  knew  him  from  the  first,"  he  says, 
''can  never  forget  the  name  and  work  of  Robert 
Browning,  or  doubt  or  misapprehend  his  place  in 
their  lives.  It  will  never  be  again  with  them  as 
though  Browning  had  never  been." 

But  he  adds : 

"  Unless  a  poet  and  a  psychologist  are  one  and 
the  same  thing ;  unless  profound  and  penetrating 
studies  of  human  character,  wise  and  noble  reflec- 
tion on  human  life,  become  poetry  in  right  of  their 
high  matter,  and  independently,  or  even  in  defiance, 
of  their  imperfections  of  form  ;  unless  mere  power 
stands  for  everything  that  goes  to  the  making  of 
poetry,  and  beauty  for  nothing — then  must  it,  I  sub- 
mit, be  acknowledged  that  too  much  of  what  Mr. 
Browning  gave  us  during  the  last  twenty  years  of 
his  life  could  hardly  be  described  as  poetry  at  all. 
That  all  of  it,  or  most  of  it,  has  been  as  acute,  as 
subtle,  as  incisive,  as  forcible  as  the  best  of  the 
poet's  earlier  work,  may  be  readily  admitted  ;  but 
that  it  lacks  the  charm  of  expression,  the  distinction 
of  manner  which,  when  he  chose  to  do  so,  he  could 
impart  to  his  poetic  utterances,  is  a  proposition  which 
I  imagine  will  hardly  be  denied.  I  am  well  aware 
that  within  a  certain  circle  of  his  votaries  it  is  deemed 
sufficient  to  insist — as  indeed  it  can  be  insisted  with- 
out fear  of  contradiction — that  there  has  been  no  de- 
cline in  the  stimulating  intellectual  quality  of  Mr. 
Browning's  work  ;  and  that  he  remained  to  the  day 
of  his  death  as  great  and  as  commanding  a  spiritual 


2i6  Browning. 

teacher  of  his  countrymen  as  ever.  But  surely  these 
well-meaning  but  injudicious  eulogists  might  per- 
ceive that  praise  of  this  particular  description,  be  it 
as  high  as  it  may  be,  could  never  of  itself  avail  to 
distinguish  Robert  Browning's  position  from  that  at- 
tained before  him  in  point  of  time,  and  beside,  if 
not  above,  him  in  point  of  place,  by  Thomas  Carlyle. 
Yet,  unless  prose  and  poetry  be  one,  what  sort  of 
claim  to  poetic  supremacy  would  that  be  which  has 
to  be  formulated  in  terms  as  justly  and  as  completely 
applicable,  word  for  word,  to  a  great  prose  writer  ? 
I  do  not  say,  I  am  far  from  saying,  that  Mr.  Brown- 
ing's claim  to  poetic  supremacy  is  only  capable  of 
such  formulation  ;  but  1  do  say  that  this  is  the  form 
which  it  most  frequently  takes  among  the  school 
who  have  constituted  themselves  the  authoritative 
expositors  of  his  work  and  the  chief  guardians  of  his 
fame.  And  1  say,  further,  that  the  fact  of  their  doing 
so,  and  of  their  dwelling  with  as  much  enthusiasm 
on  these  later  works,  in  which  he  shows  himself  the 
thinker  only,  as  on  the  earlier  ones,  in  which  the 
presence  of  the  poetry  was  no  less  conspicuous  than 
the  weightiness  of  the  thought,  has  been  mainly  re- 
sponsible for  any  decline  of  poetic  quality  which 
may  have  been  visible  in  the  work  of  his  declining 
years. 

''  The  nexus  of  cause  and  effect  is,  indeed,  too  plain 
to  be  missed.  Upon  a  man  of  Mr.  Browning's  intel- 
lectual energy  and  fervour,  upon  a  preacher  so  full 
of  his  message  and  so  eager  for  its  utterance,  the 


©pinione  of  Conteinporariee.  217 

long-delayed  experience  which  befell  him  when 
approaching  his  sixtieth  year  could  hardly  have 
failed  to  exercise  a  more  or  less  disturbing  effect. 
The  situation  in  which  he  found  himself  when  the 
appearance  of  The  Ring  and  the  Book  at  last  made 
his  poetry  the  literary  vogue  of  the  day  was  some- 
thing like  that  of  the  great  Parliamentary  orator  who 
sees  the  deserted  benches  of  the  House  of  Commons 
filling  with  noiseless  rapidity  as  he  rises  to  speak.  It 
is  a  situation  full  no  doubt  of  mental  and  emotional 
stimulus,  but  far  more  conducive  to  copiousness  of 
production  than  to  perfection  of  form.  That  it  stimu- 
lated Mr.  Browning's  creative  energies  to  the  utmost, 
a  survey  of  his  writings  during  the  period  in  question 
will  convince  anyone.  If  we  leave  out  of  account 
the  longest  of  all  his  poems,  the  four  volumes  of  The 
Ring  and  the  Book,  we  shall  find  that  the  poems 
published  in  the  last  twenty  years  of  his  literary 
activity  equal  in  bulk,  and  perhaps  exceed  in  actual 
number  of  lines,  the  whole  of  the  poetic  production 
of  the  previous  thirty-three  years.  For  this,  Mr. 
Browning,  being  human,  had  to  pay  the  penalty. 
'Art  is  long,'  and  the  proverb,  as  1  take  it,  refers 
not  only  to  its  acquisition  but  to  its  practice.  Mr. 
Browning's  poems  suffered,  and  could  not  but  suffer, 
from  the  fact  that  they  were  poured  forth,  fused  and 
molten,  as  it  were,  from  that  magnificently  heated 
brain,  and  presented  to  the  public  in  the  amorphous 
condition  in  which  the  mass  had  been  cooled.  It  is 
possible  that  on  some  men  a  comparatively  sudden 


2i8  Browning. 

popularity  of  this  kind  might  have  produced  a  differ- 
ent, even  an  opposite  effect,  and  that  it  would  have 
lent  energy  to  their  perfective  no  less  than  to  their 
productive  impulses.  But  with  Mr.  Browning  it  was 
not  so.  We  cannot  exactly  say,  indeed,  that  the 
artistic  spirit  was  wanting  in  him,  or  even  that  it  was 
lower  than  the  normal  strength.  On  the  contrary, 
it  was,  within  the  limits  which  he  recognised  and 
presented  to  himself,  of  extraordinary  power.  He 
worked  on  his  peculiar  line  as  a  thorough  artist,  if 
ever  man  did  ;  but  the  art  which  came  naturally  to 
him  was  not  specifically  that  of  the  poet.  He  was 
not,  he  never  had  been,  studious  of  the  external 
beauty  of  poetic  form.  Had  he  been  so,  he  must 
have  run  his  pen  through  scores,  through  hundreds 
of  lines  which  he  has  allowed  to  stand.  Command 
over  the  beauty  of  external  form  was  a  faculty  which 
he  was  slowly  acquiring  at  the  moment  when  popul- 
arity overtook  him  :  and  from  that  moment,  or  so  I 
think  it  must  appear  to  an  impartial  judgment,  he 
ceased  to  strive  after  it.  That  he  was  a  real  poet  in 
the  sense  of  having  written  real  poetry,  will  be  ad- 
mitted by  every  competent  critic.  But  it  will  have, 
I  fear,  to  be  added  that  no  poet  so  eminent  as  Mr. 
Browning  has  ever  left  behind  him  so  large  a  body 
of  brilliant,  profound,  inspiring  literature,  wherein 
the  essential  characteristics  of  poetry  will  be  sought 
in  vain." 

Professor  Alexander  in  his  Introduction  to  Robert 
Browning  reaches  much  the  same  conclusion  without, 


©pinione  of  Contemporaries.  219 

however,  attributing  the  cause  to  any  external 
influence.  The  books  written  since  1870  he  calls 
''powerful  works,  great  in  their  way,"  but  doubts, 
if  Browning  had  written  nothing  better,  ''whether 
in  fifty  years  his  poems  would  be  regarded  other- 
wise than  as  literary  curiosities." 

At  the  end  of  The  Ring  and  the  Book  is  introduced 
a  justification  of  art  used  as  a  means  of  moral  in- 
struction, which  seems  in  a  way  to  mark  the  forming 
of  a  habit  that  presently  took  the  place  of  more  or 
less  capricious  impulse,  and  laid  a  certain  fetter  upon 
the  free  movement  of  Browning's  inspiration,  weight- 
ing it  without  giving  it  form:  "Art,  wherein  man 
nowise  speaks  to  man,  only  to  mankind,"  he  says, 

May  tell  a  truth 
Obliquely,  do  the  thing  shall  breed  the  thought, 
Nor  wrong  the  thought,  missing  the  mediate  word. 
So  may  you  paint  your  picture,  twice  show  truth. 
Beyond  mere  imagery  on  the  wall, — 
So,  note  by  note,  bring  music  from  your  mind, 
Deeper  than  ever  e'en  Beethoven  dived, — 
So  write  a  book  shall  mean  beyond  the  facts. 
Suffice  the  eye  and  save  the  soul  beside. 

To  tell  a  truth  obliquely  became  increasingly  his 
concern,  at  all  events.  After  the  Dramatis  Personce, 
we  find  nothing  like  The  Last  Ride  Together,  in  which 
the  delight  of  the  moment,  the  keen  zest  of  living  and 
loving,  have  no  lesson,  but  quicken  the  pulse ;  no- 
thing like  Childe  Roland,  in  which  fancy  and  thought 
move  lightly  and  swiftly  to  the  same  goal ;  nothing 
to  gallop  breezily  into  the  mind  like  the  "Ride" 


2  20  Browning. 

from  Ghent  to  Aix  and  set  the  imagination  tingling. 
The  style  of  these  poems,  magnetic,  forcible,  and 
spontaneous,  is  lost ;  and,  unlike  Tennyson,  Brown- 
ing never  recovered  it.  There  is  no  poem  of  his  old 
age  that  recalls  for  him,  as  The  Crossing  of  the  Bar 
for  Tennyson,  the  most  exquisite  moment  of  his 
genius. 

With  The  Ring  and  the  Book  those  who  love  him 
best  for  the  work  that  most  equally  combines  his 
thought,  his  intensity  of  feeling,  his  individual  man- 
ner, and  the  enchanting  harmony  possible  to  him, 
must  confess  that  the  glory  has  departed. 

What  remains  are  the  intellectual  and  moral  ele- 
ments. At  the  end  of  his  life,  as  at  the  beginning,  he 
sees  his  subject  in  the  souls  and  minds  of  men,  only, 
as  he  says  in  the  Prologue  to  Asolando,  the  flame  of 
radiant  illusion  is  gone,  and  the  bush  is  bare,  dis- 
playing countless  intricate  branches  leading  the 
vision  in  every  direction. 

And  also  he  teaches  at  the  end  of  his  life  the  same 
ethical  lesson  taught  at  the  beginning,  the  change 
consisting  in  the  manner  of  presenting  it,  in  a  greater 
inclination  toward  paradox,  a  whimsical  sophistry 
summoned  from  a  vasty  mind  to  be  confuted  by  a 
keen  moral  sense.  This  tendency  is  recognised  and 
defined  by  Professor  Dowden  as  marking  distinctly 
the  period  following  The  Ring  and  the  Book : 

"In  the  story  of  the  Roman  murder-case,"  he 
says,  ''the  poet  mingled  fancy  or  falsehood  with 
truth— not  for  falsehood's  sake,  but  for  the  sake 


©pinions  of  Contemporanes,  2  2 1 

of  truth.  The  characteristic  of  Mr.  Browning's  later 
poetry  is  that  it  is  for  ever  tasking  falsehood  to  yield 
up  fact,  for  ever  (to  employ  imagery  of  his  own)  as  a 
swimmer  beating  the  treacherous  water  with  the 
feet  in  order  that  the  head  may  rise  higher  into  pure 
air  made  for  the  spirit's  breathing.  Mr.  Browning's 
genius  unites  an  intellect  which  delights  in  the  in- 
vestigation of  complex  problems  with  a  spiritual  and 
moral  nature  which  reveals  itself  in  swift  and  simple 
solutions  of  those  problems ;  it  unites  an  analytic 
or  discursive  power  supplied  by  the  head  with  an 
intuitive  power  furnished  by  the  heart  or  soul. 
Now  in  Mr.  Browning's  earlier  poems  his  strong 
spiritual  ardours  and  intuitions  were  the  factors  of 
his  art  which  most  decisively  made  their  presence 
felt ;  impassioned  truth  often  flashed  upon  the 
reader  through  no  intervening  and  resisting  me- 
dium. However  the  poet  expended  his  force  of 
intellect  in  following  the  moral  casuistry  of  a  Blou- 
gram,  we  felt  where  the  truth  lay.  In  The  Ring 
and  the  Book,  and  in  a  far  greater  degree  in  some 
more  recent  poems,  while  the  supreme  authority 
resides  in  the  spiritual  intuitions  or  the  passions 
of  the  heart,  their  momentary  decisive  work  waits 
until  a  prolonged  casuistry  has  accomplished  its 
utmost ;  falsehood  seems  almost  more  needful  to 
the  poet  than  truth. 

''And  yet  ft  is  never  actually  so.  Rather  to 
the  poet,  as  truth-seeker,  it  appeared  a  kind  of  cow- 
ardice to  seek  truth  only  where  it  might  easily  be 


22  2  Browning, 

found  :  the  strenuous  hunter  will  track  it  through  all 
winding  ways  of  error.  The  masculine  characters 
in  Mr.  Browning's  poems  are  ordinarily  made  the 
exponents  of  his  intellectual  casuistry— a  Hohenstiel- 
Schwangau,  an  Aristophanes ;  the  female  characters 
from  Pippa  and  Polyxena  to  Pompilia  and  Balaustion 
are  revealers  to  men  of  divine  truth,  which  with  them 
is  either  a  celestial  grace  or  a  dictate  of  pure  human 
passion.  Eminent  moments  of  life  have  the  same  in- 
terest for  the  poet  now  as  formerly— moments  when 
life,  caught  up  out  of  the  ways  of  custom  and  low 
levels  of  prudence,  takes  its  guidance  and  inspiration 
from  a  sudden  discovery  of  truth  through  some  high 
ardour  of  the  heart ;  therefore  it  does  not  seem 
much  to  him  to  task  his  ingenuity  through  almost 
all  the  pages  of  a  lengthy  book  in  creating  a  tangle 
and  embroilment  of  evil  and  good,  of  truth  and 
falsehood,  in  order  that  a  shining  moment  at  last 
may  spring  forward  and  do  its  work  of  severing 
absolutely  and  finally  right  from  wrong,  and  shame 
from  splendour.  Thus  Mr.  Browning  came  more 
and  more  to  throw  himself  into  prolonged  intellect- 
ual sympathy  with  characters  toward  whom  his 
moral  sense  stood  in  ardent  antagonism.  We  saw 
the  errors  of  an  idealist  Aprile — they  were  easy  to 
understand ;  let  us  now  hear  all  that  an  Aristo- 
phanes, darkening  the  light  that  is  in  him,  may  have 
to  say  in  his  own  behalf.  We  saw  how  the  poetry 
of  a  Chiappano's  life  descended  into  ignoble  prose. 
Let  us  now  hear  the  self-defence  of  the  prosaic  life 


©pinions  of  Contemporaries.  2  2  3 

of  action,  a  life  of  compromise  and  expediency,  from 
the  lips  of  Hohenstiel-Schwangau.  We  saw  the 
passionate  fidelity  of  love  in  a  Colombe,  in  a  Nor- 
bert.  Let  us  now  hear  all  that  a  husband  of  Elvire 
can  say  to  prove  that  he  may  fitly  be  on  the  track 
of  a  fizgig  like  Fifine.  Mr.  Browning's  courageous 
adhesion  to  truth  never  deserts  him  ;  only,  like  that 
of  Hugues, 

His  fugue  broadens  and  thickens, 
Greatens  and  deepens  and  lengthens, 

until  we  are  tempted  at  times  to  ask  like  the  be- 
wildered organist,  '  But  where  is  the  music  ?  '  And 
there  are  one  or  two  poems  in  which  we  wait  in  vain 
for  any  unstopping  of  the  full-organ,  any  blare  of  the 
mode  Palestrina.  A  strenuous  acceptance  of  the 
world  for  the  sake  of  things  higher  than  worldly  is 
enjoined  by  the  first  principles  of  Mr.  Browning's 
way  of  thinking ;  the  falsehoods  of  life  must  there- 
fore be  accepted,  understood,  and  mastered  for  the 
sake  of  truth.  His  best  gift  to  his  age  is  however 
not  intellectual  casuistry.  Better  to  us  than  his 
teaching  of  truth  by  falsehood  is  his  teaching  of  truth 
as  truth.  Though  in  his  recent  poems  he  may  linger 
long  between  'turf  and  'towers,'  carefully  study- 
ing each,  a  moment  usually  comes  of  such  terribly 
impassioned  truth-seeking  as  that  which  proved  the 
sanity  of  Leonce-Miranda.  To  approach  the  real 
world,  to  take  it  as  it  is  and  for  what  it  is,  yet  at  the 
same  time  to  penetrate  it  with  sudden  spiritual  fire, 
has  been  the  aim  of  Mr.  Browning's  later  poetry." 


224  Brownlna. 

To  the  plain  reader,  as  to  these  discerning  critics, 
the  flower  of  Browning's  poetry  seems  to  belong  to 
the  fifteen  years  spent  in  Italy  before  the  death  of  his 
wife  ;  not  even  the  poems  of  Asolando,  where  he 
returns  eager  to  "  disport  himself  in  the  open  air,"  to 
''amuse  himself  at  random,"  having  the  abundant 
felicity  of  the  early  work. 

It  is  interesting  to  note  that  when  the  Pall  Mall 
Gazette  asked  its  readers  to  send  lists  of  the  fifty 
short  poems  of  his  best  suited  for  publication  in  the 
popular  shilling  volume  issued  after  his  death,  only 
five  poems  on  the  prize  list  were  written  later  than 
1864,  although  one  of  the  competitors  took  a  dozen 
from  the  last  volume  of  his  work  and  declared  that  he 
had  ''  never  written  anything  better  in  lyrical  quality." 

With  the  plebiscite  his  entrance  to  the  "  plain  pub- 
lic road  "  that  leads  to  permanent  fame  is  certainly 
not  by  the  gateway  of  the  poems  in  which  form 
and  emotion  are  sacrificed  to  psychological  analysis. 
Mr.  Stead  is  authority  for  the  statement  that  he  is 
being  recognised  ''more  and  more  as  a  people's 
poet":  "  workingmen  and  -women,"  he  says,  "in 
widely  different  parts  of  the  land  are  showing  an  ap- 
preciation of  his  works  which  puts  to  shame  the 
attitude  of  indifference  or  even  disdain  often  assumed 
by  members  of  the  middle  classes.  These  working 
folk  are  finding  out  the  heart  of  love  the  poet  had  for 
the  common  people. 

"They  see  how  many  of  his  best  characters  are 
drawn  from  the  lower  social  grades.    They  feel  the 


©plnione  of  Contemporariee.  225 

sympathy  which  lingered  over  toilers  like  Theocrite 
the  craftsman,  Riel  the  pilot,  Ivan  the  peasant,  and 
the  poor  wrecks  of  humanity  that  crowd  into  the 
chapel  in  Christmas  Eve.  The  heroine  of  Pippa 
Passes  is  but  a  lone  mill  girl  ;  and  Browning's  most 
perfect  creation  is  no  '  blameless  king '  or  sceptred 
prig,  but  Pompilia,  child  of  a  parentage  too  low 
to  name.  His  passion  for  popular  freedom  touches 
the  popular  heart  in  short  poems  like  The  Italian  in 
England,  The  Confessional,  and  The  Patriot,  besides 
colouring  the  atmosphere  of  his  larger  works.  It  is 
possible  that  the  masses  may  yet  fmd  in  Pippa's 
morning  hymn  their  plea  for  a  juster  distribution  of 
wealth.  *  All  service  ranks  the  same  with  God 
.  .  .  there  is  no  last  nor  first.'  That  is  a  prin- 
ciple which,  when  translated  into  economic  terms, 
may  be  regarded  as  fairly  drastic.  Works  like  Sor- 
dello  or  Bishop  Blougram's  Apology  will  probably 
never  attract  more  than  a  few  to  study  and  enjoy 
them.  But  there  is  range  enough  in  Browning  to 
supply  ample  food  and  fire  for  the  new  democracy." 
As  a  rule,  workingmen  and  -women  have  not 
been  conspicuously  fond  of  poetry  about  them- 
selves, and  Browning's  appeal  to  them  does  not  lie, 
perhaps,  in  his  choice  of  humble  characters  (who 
are  hardly  more  numerous  than  duchesses  in  his 
work)  so  much  as  in  his  sympathy  with  lusty  emo- 
tions and  instincts  held  by  all  human  beings  in 
common,  and  his  entire  freedom  from  intellectual 
condescension. 


226  :il5rownina. 

But  his  chief  appeal  is,  after  all,  to  minds  as  curi- 
ous as  his  own  concerning  the  psychologic  mysteries 
of  the  human  world.  His  passion  for  investigation  is 
only  matched  by  his  daring  in  assuming  discovery ; 
and  those  who  read  him  with  a  predetermined  sym- 
pathy for  these  qualities  fmd  him  keenly  suggestive. 
In  an  article  written  just  after  his  death,  his  stim- 
ulating quality  is  contrasted  with  Tennyson's  satis- 
fying charm,  with  full  appreciation  of  his  strong, 
inquisitive  intellect,  and  the  fitness  to  it  of  the  form 
chosen  by  him. 

"  Here  are  contemporary  poets  of  the  selfsame 
country,"  the  writer  says,  ''both  idealists  in  aim, 
both  feeling  the  imperious  necessity  of  not  being  too 
much  of  idealists  to  recognise  fully  the  vulgarities,  the 
dust,  and,  so  to  say,  the  lumber  of  life, — one  of 
whom  yet  strives  to  give  dignity  where  he  can  to  all 
his  visions,  and  either  grace  or  ease  where  dignity  is 
impossible;  while  the  other  almost  strives  to  avoid 
giving  any  trace  of  an  artistic  manner  or  finish  to 
anything  that  he  has  to  say,  nay,  who  makes  it  more 
familiar  than  is  quite  natural,  by  using  such  phrases 
as  'settled  on'?  business,'  or  blurting  out  in  his  eager, 
shorthand  style ,'  put  case,'  without  the  definite  arti- 
cle which  would  naturally,  even  in  familiar  dialogue, 
precede  the  word  '  case,'  and  soften  the  hurry  of  his 
speech.  The  poet-laureate,  in  his  boyish  days  at 
least,  was  so  great  a  lover  of  graceful  manner  that 
his  attitudes  of  speech  often  suggested  posture-mak- 
ing.     The  vivid  and  graphic  thinker  whom  we  have 


©pinions  of  Contemporariee.  2  2  7 

just  lost  was  so  great  a  lover  of  the  familiar  that  he 
invented  angularities  of  style  which  no  ordinary  man 
could  have  discovered,  and  evidently  preferred  '  set- 
tling 5rc\  business  '  to  explaining  the  principles  which 
governed  its  use  in  the  Greek  syntax.  And  no  doubt 
the  former  phrase  is  a  great  deal  more  awakening 
than  the  latter.  Its  very  familiarity  gives  a  shock  to 
conventional  habits  of  thought,  and  that  is  really  at 
the  bottom  of  Browning's  love  of  familiarity  and 
abruptness  of  style.  He  wants  to  turn  versification 
into  a  spur  rather  than  a  pleasure.  He  oftener  uses 
rhyme  and  rhythm  to  prick  the  drowsy  mind  than 
directly  to  exalt  the  commonplace  mind.  And  no 
doubt  the  view  that  all  verse  should  have  a  sweet- 
ness of  its  own  had  been  overdone  in  modern  times, 
before  Browning  arose  to  contradict  it.  The  Vir- 
gilian  use  of  verse  is  not  the  only  use.  The  great 
Greek  dramatists  can  hardly  be  said  to  have  made 
'  charm '  the  chief  feature  of  their  versification. 
Many  of  their  choruses  are  very  rugged,  and  much  of 
their  dialogue  is  plain  even  to  homeliness.  Dante 
often  abounds  in  crabbed  speech,  even,  we  suppose 
(for  the  present  writer  speaks  only  on  the  authority  of 
others),  where  there  is  no  doubt  about  the  text. 
And  even  Goethe,  lucid  and  harmonious  as  he 
loved  to  be,  did  not  shrink  from  being  jerky  and  ob- 
scure where  his  subject  required  it,  as  he  evidently 
thought  it  did  in  his  Walpurgisnacht  on  the  Brocken. 
It  is  a  mistake  to  suppose  that  verse  has  no  func- 
tion except  that  of  lending  harmony,  beauty,  and 


228  Browning. 

grandeur  to  the  thought.  Sometimes,  as  in  the 
case  of  Tennyson's  Northern  Farmer,  rhythm  only 
answers  the  purpose  of  a  frame  to  isolate  and  give 
the  impression  of  care,  condensation,  and  study  to  a 
sketch  of  a  very  rough  and  coarse  figure.  Some- 
times, as  in  the  case  of  Hudibras,  as  v/ell  as  with  a 
great  many  of  Browning's  poems,  the  jerk  and  the 
jingle  are  as  essential  to  the  grotesque  effect  in- 
tended as  want  of  proportion  may  be  to  an  effective 
caricature.  Indeed  with  poets  who,  like  Tennyson, 
are  great  masters  of  both  metre  and  rhyme,  the 
rhythm  of  the  finer  blank  verse  is  more  satisfying, 
exactly  because  there  is  less  exuberance  of  sweet- 
ness in  it  than  in  the  most  beautiful  of  the  rhymed 
verses.  The  former  has  something  of  the  dignity 
and  simplicity  of  sculpture  about  it ;  the  latter  has 
too  soft  and  luxurious  an  air  for  the  most  exalted 
themes.  And  for  the  same  reason,  in  the  Greek 
poetry,  in  which  there  was  no  such  thing  as  rhyme, 
and,  except  in  the  Homeric  hexameter,  very  little 
even  of  the  silver  rhythm  of  Virgil,  we  find  a  greater 
wealth  of  majesty  than  even  poets  of  the  highest 
order  could  have  produced  under  the  conditions  of 
modern  rhyme.  It  may  well  be  questioned  whether 
rhyme  has  not  added  too  much  sweetness  to  mod- 
ern poetry,  and  made  it,  so  to  say,  too  'sugary.' 
Are  not  Tennyson's  greatest  achievements  effected 
without  it,  or  in  that  modified  rhyme  of  In  Me- 
moriam,  where  the  distance  between  the  two  en- 
closins:  rhymes  in  the  first  and  fourth  lines  keeps  the 


©pinions  of  Contemporariee.  2  29 

ear  waiting  long  enough  to  prevent  the  full  sweet- 
ness of  rhyme  from  cloying  the  sense  ?  Browning, 
however,  uses  rhyme  with  a  very  different  object 
from  poets  in  general, — not  to  add  to  the  beauty  or 
harmony  of  the  effect,  but  to  multiply  surprises  and 
shocks,  to  take  your  breath  away,  sometimes  to 
flog  you  into  alertness,  sometimes  to  laugh  you  into 
confusion,  sometimes  again  to  make  you  laugh 
heartily  at  his  humour.  To  use  his  own  happy  and 
latest  phrase,  he  '  hitches  the  thing  into  verse '  rather 
than  expresses  it  in  verse,  because  he  loves  the 
rhythmical  movement  and  the  cry  it  is  capable  of 
yielding.  He  often  uses  verse  as  a  conjurer  uses 
sleight-of-hand, — to  astonish  you  with  his  ingenuity, 
with  his  resource,  with  his  agility,  with  his  presence 
of  mind, — or  as  a  tight-rope  dancer  uses  the  nimble- 
ness  and  flexibility  of  his  limbs.  In  a  word,  Brown- 
ing does  not  aim  at  setting  life  to  music,  though 
music  was  so  dear  to  him.  To  him,  music  was  one 
thing,  and  poetry  another ;  the  greatest  part  of  life, 
and  that  which  he  cared  most  to  study,  was  quaint 
and  odd  rather  than  beautiful  and  sublime  ;  and  espe- 
cially quaint  and  odd  when  you  compared  it  with 
the  spiritual  ends  for  which  Browning  believed  that 
man  had  been  created.  It  was  his  great  aim  to 
show  how  quaint  and  odd  life  really  is,  how  differ- 
ent from  the  standards  of  the  eternal  world,  and  yet 
how  much  influenced  by  those  standards.  He  loved 
to  make  men  see  the  strange  irregularity,  the  astound- 
ing unevenness,  the  almost  incredible  failures,  which 


230  Browning. 

we  are  compelled  to  recognise  in  a  world  in  which  the 
hunger  and  thirst  for  nobler  things  are  always  break- 
ing through  ;  and  he  thought  he  could  do  this  better 
by  using  verse  freely  to  familiarise  to  us  the  incongru- 
ities of  the  world  as  it  is,  than  by  using  it  to  make  the 
world — either  as  it  is  or  as  it  should  be — fascinating. 
To  Browning  life  was  a  medley  of  grotesques  with  a 
glowing  horizon  beyond  it.  And  he  used  his  poetic 
ingenuity  quite  as  much  to  help  us  enter  into  the 
grotesqueness  as  to  help  us  see  the  sunlit  distance." 
It  is  this  tremendous  ingenuity  that  has  so  much 
impressed  Browning's  later  public  as  to  make  him 
seem  to  them  an  "  acrostic  "  writer.  He  himself  tells 
a  story  of  meeting  a  Chinese  gentleman  who  was  in- 
troduced to  him  as  a  ''brother  author."  "\  asked 
him,"  said  Browning,  "  what  sort  of  work  his  was  ; 
and  he  replied  that  he  composed  enigmas.  A  brother 
indeed  !  "  But  most  of  the  enigmas  are  comprehensi- 
ble enough  to  a  patient  reader  who  is  capable  of 
concentrating  his  attention  through  many  consecu- 
tive pages  of  unimpassioned  analysis.  The  essential 
quality  to  bring  to  his  poetry  is,  perhaps,  a  desire  to 
understand  it.  The  Inn  Album,  which  to  Mr. 
James  was  a  stumbling-block,  in  spite  of  its  striking 
resemblance  to  one  or  two  of  his  own  novels,  has 
been  a  lucid  and  interesting  narrative  to  Mr.  Stedman, 
whose  poetry  is  as  clear  as  a  New  England  brook  ; 
and  who  has  given  in  his  Victorian  Poets  an  admira- 
ble statement  of  Browning's  temper  of  mind  as  it  ap- 
pears to  a  critic  neither  warm  nor  cold. 


©pinions  of  Contemporaries.  231 

'*To  read  one  of  Browning's  psychical  analyses  is 
like  consulting  a  watch  that  has  a  transparent  glass, 
instead  of  a  cap  of  gold,  surmounting  the  interior, "  he 
says.  "  We  forget  the  beauty  and  proportions  of  the 
jewelled  timepiece,  even  in  its  office  as  a  chronicler 
of  time,  and  are  absorbed  by  the  intricate  and  dexter- 
ous, rather  than  artistic,  display  of  the  works  within. 
Here  is  movement,  here  is  the  very  soul  of  the  thing, 
no  doubt ;  but  a  watch  of  the  kind  that  marks  the 
time  as  if  by  some  will  and  guerdon  of  its  own  is 
even  more  suggestive  and  often  as  satisfying  to  its 
possessor.  All  the  more.  Browning  represents  the 
introspective  science  of  the  new  age.  Regard  one  of 
his  men  or  women,  you  detect  not  only  the  striking 
figure,  the  impassioned  human  speech  and  conduct, 
but,  as  if  from  some  electric  coil,  so  intense  a  light  is 
shot  beyond  that  every  organ  and  integument  are  re- 
vealed. You  see  the  blood  in  its  secretest  channels, 
the  convolutions  and  gyrations  of  the  molecular  brain, 
— all  the  mechanism  that  obeys  the  impulse  of  the 
resultant  personage. 

"Attention  is  diverted  from  the  entire  creation  to 
the  functions  of  its  parts.  Events  become  of  import 
chiefly  for  the  events  which  promote  them  or  which 
they  imitate.  Browning's  genius  has  made  this 
underworld  a  tributary  of  its  domain.  As  a  mind- 
reader,  then,  he  is  the  most  dramatic  of  poets.  The 
fact  that,  after  scrutinising  his  personages,  he  trans- 
lates the  thoughts  of  all  into  his  own  tongue  may 
lessen  their  objective  value,  but  those  wonted  to 


232  Browning. 

the  language  find  nothing  better  suited  to  their 
taste." 

In  a  general  survey  of  Browning's  work  we  find 
it,  then,  consistent  throughout  with  his  first  pre-oc- 
cupation,  the  study  of  minds  ;  inspired  by  one  ethical 
impulse,  to  preach  discontent  with  low  or  tame  ideals  ; 
but  changing  steadily  from  poetry  toward  prose,  as 
he  became  wiser,  and  more  accurate,  and  less  moved 
by  emotion.  In  his  preface  to  the  translation  of  The 
Agamemnon  of  y^schylus  a  passage  occurs  that  sug- 
gests his  way  of  approaching  the  multitudinous  facts 
of  life  as  he  grew  older  and  more  impressed  by  the 
difficulty  of  translating  the  actual  into  poetry. 

"If,  because  of  the  immense  fame  of  the  follow- 
ing Tragedy,  I  wished  to  acquaint  myself  with  it," 
he  says,  ''and  could  only  do  so  by  the  help  of  a 
translator,  I  should  require  him  to  be  literal  at  every 
cost  save  that  of  absolute  violence  to  our  language. 
The  use  of  certain  allowable  constructions  which, 
happening  to  be  out  of  daily  favour,  are  all  the  more 
appropriate  to  archaic  workmanship,  is  no  violence  ; 
but  I  would  be  tolerant  for  once — in  the  case  of  so 
immensely  famous  an  original — of  even  a  clumsy 
attempt  to  furnish  me  with  the  very  turn  of  each 
phrase  in  as  Greek  a  fashion  as  English  will  bear : 
while,  with  respect  to  amplifications  and  embellish- 
ments,— anything  rather  than,  with  the  good  farmer, 
experience  that  most  signal  of  mortifications,  'to 
gape  for  y^schylus  and  get  Theognis.'  .  .  . 
Further, — if  I  obtained  a  mere  strict,  bald  version  of 


©pinions  of  Contemporaries.  233 

thing  by  thing,  or  at  least  word  pregnant  with  thing, 
I  should  hardly  look  for  an  impossible  transmission 
of  the  reputed  magniloquence  and  sonority  of  the 
Greek  ;  and  this  with  the  less  regret,  inasmuch  as 
there  is  abundant  musicality  elsewhere,  but  nowhere 
else  than  in  his  poem  the  ideas  of  the  poet.  And 
lastly,  when  presented  with  these  ideas,  1  should  ex- 
pect the  result  to  prove  very  hard  reading  indeed,  if 
it  were  meant  to  resemble  y^schylus." 

In  somewhat  such  a  spirit  and  by  somewhat  such 
methods  Browning  has  attempted  to  translate  life, 
that  most  famous  of  all  originals,  and  whoever  is  not 
"tolerant"  of  the  attempt,  must  lose  much  of  the 
very  truth  ;  so  hard  by  any  means  to  capture. 

Moreover,  in  making  any  estimate,  however  care- 
ful and  sincere,  of  the  comparative  and  ultimate  value 
of  his  various  work,  it  is  a  fearless  mind,  indeed,  that 
permits  itself  to  forget  the  words  of  another  great 
poet  concerning  him  : 

The  shaft  that  slew 
Can  slay  not  one  of  all  the  works  we  knew, 
Nor  death  discrown  that  many-laurelled  head. 


CHAPTER  XII. 
FRENCH  CRITICISMS. 

THE  definition  of  criticism  by  which  Matthew' 
Arnold  bound  himself  is  this:  ''A  disinter- 
ested endeavour  to  learn  and  propagate  the 
best  that  is  known  and  thought  in  the  world  "  ;  and 
in  order  to  get  anywhere  near  this  standard,  he  said, 
every  critic  should  try  to  possess  one  great  litera- 
ture, at  least,  besides  his  own,  and  the  more  unlike 
his  own  the  better. 

Such  disinterested  endeavour  has  certainly  been 
shown  by  those  French  critics  who,  venturing  into 
a  language  only  a  little  less  unlike  their  own  than 
the  German,  have  brought  to  the  knowledge  of  their 
people  such  poets  as  Wordsworth  and  Tennyson 
and  Browning.  The  last  in  particular  must  have 
taxed  the  flexible  French  intelligence  and  agreeable 
French  urbanity  to  the  utmost ;  yet  no  one  of  his 
own  nationality  has  shown  a  more  discriminating  per- 
ception of  the  qualities  and  defects  of  his  poetry,  or 
so  prompt  an  interest  in  analysing  his  method,  as 
the  writers  who  began,  five  years  after  the  publication 

234 


jfrcncb  Criticlem^.  235 

of  Paracelsus,  to  discuss  him  in  the  Revues  while  he 
was  still  without  honour  in  his  own  country. 

Perhaps  it  was  not  so  much  his  transcendental 
ideas,  and  certainly  it  was  not  so  much  his  over- 
loaded style,  that  attracted  them,  as  it  was  his  in- 
tensely civilised  mind,  his  profound  interest  in 
human  development,  his  relish  for  personal  idiosyn- 
crasies, his  mental  alertness. 

M.  Philarete  Chasles,  writing  in  1840  on  the 
English  theatre,  went  out  of  his  way  to  include 
Browning  among  the  dramatists,  misinterpreting  his 
intention,  which  was  not  at  that  time  to  write  for 
the  stage ;  but  admirably  describing  the  impres- 
sion made  by  this  new  departure  in  dramatic  writ- 
ing on  the  French  mind,  keen  for  revolutionary 
tendencies. 

''Paracelsus  is  the  more  worthy  of  note,"  says 
M.  Chasles,  ''  in  that  its  merit  has  been  almost  unper- 
ceived  in  England.  Seldom  has  a  poet  buried  so 
much  thought,  brilliancy,  pathos,  and  profundity  in 
a  work  without  a  future,  but  not  without  power. 
As  a  dramatic  essay  it  is  very  nothingness.  Hardly 
out  of  its  shell  and  quickly  forgotten,  drowned  in 
vaguely  esthetic  dissertations  and  the  periphrases 
of  a  prolix  style,  the  book  should,  nevertheless,  be 
recognised  as  a  very  beautiful  psychological  and 
moral  analysis. 

'"  The  author  has  desired  to  bring  upon  the  stage 
one  of  the  revolutionaries  of  science,  and  to  interest 
the  reader  in  the  vicissitudes  of  his  thought.    The 


236  Brownina* 

character  of  Paracelsus  was  well  chosen  ;  he  repre- 
sents a  complete  movement  in  civilisation.  We 
sons  of  the  nineteenth  century  are  astonished  at  that 
taking  place  under  our  eyes  ;  at  the  beginning  of  the 
sixteenth  one  much  more  amazing  was  inaugur- 
ated, of  which  ours  is  but  the  development,  and  the 
impulse  of  which  we  are  still  following. 

"Then  were  seen  at  one  time  Cardan,  author  of 
magnificent  geometric  formulas ;  Copernicus,  who, 
like  Joshua,  said  to  the  sun,  'Stand  still!'  Cornel- 
ius Agrippa,  who  in  15 10  sustained  the  same  ar- 
gument as  Jean-Jacques  in  1750  ;  Luther,  Calvin,  and 
Melanchthon.  All  the  old  authority  was  shaken  by 
them.  The  revolutions  of  a  new  world  were  made 
upon  a  new  axis.  I  cannot  pardon  Voltaire  for  de- 
spising Cardan  and  depreciating  Luther.  What  was 
Voltaire,  sower  of  doubt,  beside  those  who  boldly 
threw  the  first  seed  into  European  soil  ? 

''The  most  original  of  these  strange  characters 
was  undoubtedly  Paracelsus,  who  renewed  medicine 
and  created  modern  chemistry,  the  necromancer,  sor- 
cerer, alchemist,  charlatan  ;  Paracelsus,  who  boasted 
of  having  found  the  philosopher's  stone  and  the 
square  of  the  circle,  and  who  concealed  a  devil  in 
the  pommel  of  his  sword.  The  ardour  of  science, 
the  fever  of  knowledge,  the  need  of  glory,  carried 
this  fiery  intelligence  through  every  form  of  madness, 
through  travel  in  every  direction,  through  ridicule  of 
every  sort.  It  is  Faust  made  real,  hearing  no  other 
Mephistopheles    than    his    passion    and    self-love, 


Robert  Browning  in  Middle  Life. 


jfrencb  Criticisms.  237 

surrounded  by  enemies,  admirers,  and  envious  rivals, 
full  of  scorn  for  this  human  species,  so  easily  deceived, 
irritated  to  the  point  of  frenzy  by  our  inability  to 
discover  the  secrets  of  life ;  an  angel  of  light  in  the 
eyes  of  some,  in  the  eyes  of  others  a  prince  of  dark- 
ness ;  in  his  own  eyes  an  incomplete  and  impotent 
being ;  to  history  and  the  future  an  enigma. 

"The  beauty  and  difficulty  of  this  analysis 
charmed  Robert  Browning's  imagination.  The  men- 
tal drama  which  is  enacted  in  all  great  and  celebrated 
natures,  and  which  takes  on  an  aspect  of  frenetic 
beauty  with  such  as  Paracelsus,  half  sublime  and 
half  insane,  has  exercised  an  irresistible  fascination 
over  the  young  poet,  whose  intellect  is  evidently 
subtle  and  profound ;  he  has  attempted  to  make  of 
it  precisely  the  thing  most  opposed  to  the  very  na- 
ture of  its  subject  and  ideas— a  play  for  the  stage. 

"There  was  never  a  stranger  little  book  than  his. 
Inheritor  by  direct  descent  from  Wordsworth  of 
the  metaphysical  dissection  of  ideas,  from  Goethe 
of  plastic  and  external  forms  of  poetry,  and  from 
Byron  of  scepticism,  the  author  believes  that  of 
these  elements,  elsewhere  precious,  he  can  make  a 
drama.  There  are  scenes,  indeed,  and  only  one 
small  thing  is  lacking  to  make  the  work  dramatic, 
that  is— drama. 

"  In  the  first  act  Paracelsus  declares  to  his  friends 
his  wish  to  seek  knowledge  and  glory  at  the  peril 
of  happiness.  In  the  second  act,  having  travelled 
far,  he  discovers  that  knowledge  is  not  everything ; 


238  Browning, 

that  it  kills  love,  and  that  without  the  union  of  the 
two  faculties,  love  and  intellect,  the  human  soul 
must  languish  and  die.  In  the  third  act  he  returns 
to  Europe,  practises  medicine  at  Basle,  attains  fame, 
augments  his  influence  by  mystifying  his  fellow- 
men,  and,  recoiling  upon  himself  with  more  trouble 
of  soul  than  before,  recognises  the  wretchedness  of 
the  three  ruins  in  his  possession  :  incomplete  know- 
ledge, impotent  love,  false  glory.  In  the  fourth  act 
he  descends  again  from  his  sublime  inspirations, 
seeks  to  forget  his  weariness  and  trial  in  worldly 
dissipations,  finds  some  peace  and  hope  in  the  com- 
mon faith  and  in  the  abnegation  of  pride,  and  finally 
dies  in  the  hospital  of  Salzburg. 

''All  this  takes  place  among  four  persons;  or, 
rather,  it  consists  of  a  monologue  of  two  thousand 
lines,  interrupted  by  a  few  incidental  questions. 
Festus,  a  simple  and  devoted  friend ;  Michal,  his 
wife  ;  Aprile,  a  young  man  as  beautiful  as  Apollo 
and  the  symbol  of  poetry  and  the  arts,  only  take  up 
the  thread  of  speech  from  time  to  time  in  order  to 
give  Paracelsus  an  occasion  to  plunge  the  scalpel 
into  his  own  mind,  to  interrogate  the  immensity  of 
his  desires,  the  despair  of  his  efforts,  and  the  dis- 
dain inspired  in  him  by  his  success  and  the  admira- 
tion of  human  kind.  Never  did  a  drama  venture  on 
representation  with  such  elements.  No  movement, 
no  change,  no  catastrophe  ;  nothing  but  an  eloquent 
elegy,  following,  in  its  tortuous  course,  the  life  of 
Paracelsus,  as  sun  and  cloud  mark  with  light  and 


jfrencb  Criticisms.  239 

shadow  the  surface  of  the  Rhine  falling  in  sheets  of 
bubbling  water,  disappearing  under  the  rocks,  or 
spreading  out  like  a  sparkling  mirror. 

"  By  a  singular  reversal  of  dramatic  art  no  visible 
action  is  perceptible  in  this  work.  The  external  phe- 
nomena of  passions  and  human  characteristics  are 
absent.  They  give  place  to  the  internal  phenomenon 
of  a  mind  which  studies  itself,  and  a  soul  that  delves 
far  into  its  own  depths. 

"  We  greet  this  strange  result  as  the  final  limit 
of  the  metaphysical  abuse  so  natural  to  the  Northern 
muse.  The  drama  of  facile  jugglery  recently  adopted 
in  France,  the  drama  of  incident  and  passion  carried 
so  far  by  the  Spanish  toward  the  beginning  of  the 
seventeenth  century  occupy,  opposite  positions. 
Shakespeare  leans,  but  not  excessively,  toward  the 
metaphysical  observation  of  the  North  ;  Calderon, 
on  the  contrary,  sacrificing  thought  to  action  and 
colour,  gravitates  from  another  direction  toward  the 
central  point  and  toward  the  perfection  of  art.  As 
to  the  new  author  under  discussion,  a  remarkable 
poet  and  philosopher,  we  cannot  grant  him  to  be  a 
dramatist.  .  .  .  Paracelsus,  a  work  which  bears, 
as  one  examines  it,  all  the  marks  of  a  superior  mind, 
but  which  is  disfigured  by  diffuseness,  incoherence, 
vagueness  of  detail,  and  defective  construction,  is  a 
drama  only  in  name." 

In  1852  the  more  sympathetic  intelligence  of  M. 
Milsand  interrogated  the  nature  of  Browning's  ideas 
and  his  originality  of  expression,  and  produced  a 


240  Browning. 

series  of  criticisms  that  have  not  been  surpassed,  if 
indeed  they  have  been  equalled,  in  breadth  of  judg- 
ment and  precision  of  definition,  by  any  English 
critic  v/ho  has  discussed  the  same  period  of  his 
poetry. 

At  that  time  M.  Milsand's  interest  in  English  lit- 
erature, English  art,  and  English  philosophy  w^as  at 
full  tide,  and  Browning's  poetry  touched  him  at  all 
these  points.  An  Anglo-Saxon  strain  in  his  pedigree 
helped  him  to  develop  a  style  of  thought  and  an  ac- 
curacy of  intuition  in  these  studies  that  must  have 
been  impossible  to  a  mind  of  wholly  alien  traditions. 
Moreover,  his  personal  bias  toward  problems  of  the 
soul  and  unconventionality  of  temperament  lent  him 
comprehension  of  Browning's  similar  tendencies. 
The  two  writers  became  friends  through  a  manifest- 
ation of  delicacy  on  the  part  of  the  critic  that  was 
unusual,  if  not,  as  Browning  impetuously  declared, 
impossible  to  any  but  a  Frenchman. 

After  alluding  in  an  article  upon  Mrs.  Browning 
to  the  tragedy  of  her  brother's  loss,  it  occurred  to 
him  that  the  reference  might  wound  her,  and  he 
went  at  once  to  Browning,  who  was  in  Paris,  offer- 
ing to  cut  out  the  offending  page  should  she  desire. 
Thus  began  a  friendship  that  lasted  until  Milsand's 
death  in  1886,  and  was  mutually  fervent  and  valu- 
able. For  many  years  Browning  sent  his  manu- 
scripts to  Milsand,  not  merely  for  criticism,  but  also 
for  correction,  acknowledging  his  "  inestimable  as- 
sistance "  in  large  and  small  particulars,  even  that  of 


jfrencb  Crlticieme.  241 

punctuation.  ''The  fact  is,"  he  wrote  to  him  in 
1872,  "  in  the  case  of  a  writer  with  my  peculiarities 
and  habits,  somebody  quite  ignorant  of  what  I  may 
have  meant  to  write,  and  only  occupied  with  what 
is  really  written,  ought  to  supervise  the  thing  pro- 
duced. And  I  never  hoped  or  dreamed  I  should  find 
such  an  intelligence  as  yours  at  my  service.  I  won't 
attempt  to  thank  you,  dearest  friend  ;  but,  simply  in 
my  own  interest,  do  not  undervalue  your  service  to 
me — because  in  logical  consequence  the  next  step 
ought  to  be  that  you  abate  it  or  withdraw  it." 

The  candour  and  fairness  of  M.  Milsand's  appre- 
ciation are  clearly  shown  in  the  following  extracts 
from  a  notice  written  in  1856  : 

"At  the  present  moment  public  taste  demands 
that  poetry  shall  show  us  striking  pictures ;  but  it 
also  demands  that  these  pictures  shall  truly  reflect 
the  face  of  society,  and  disclose  to  many  what  only 
a  few  can  distinguish  for  themselves.  If  our  thoughts 
and  characteristics  could  detach  themselves  and  ap- 
pear before  us,  and  if  we  could  see  them  as  objects 
independent  of  our  personality,  it  would  be  much 
better  for  us.  That  poetry  seeks  to  render  us  an 
analogous  service  and  to  become  in  some  sort  the 
conscience  of  society  ;  that  the  poet  should  express 
in  his  songs  the  feelings  by  which  the  souls  of 
divers  classes  are  stirred  ;  that  by  his  dramas  he 
should  show  men  the  motives  by  which  they  are 
actuated,  and  the  motives  by  which  it  is  noble  to 
abide  ;  that  he  should  apply  himself  in  general  to 


242  Browning. 

first  seizing  upon  the  significance  and  import  of 
things  of  the  universe,  their  beauty  and  grandeur, 
in  order  later  to  try  and  reveal  them  through  his 
creations  :  such,  it  seems  to  me,  is  the  course  laid 
out  for  poetry  by  the  theory  of  the  day. 

"I  pause  at  one  of  the  most  remarkable  repre- 
sentatives of  this  new  phase — Mr.  Browning.  The 
word  representative  is  not  perhaps  very  appropriate 
to  so  profoundly  individual  a  writer ;  but  whether 
as  cause  or  as  effect  he  is  none  the  less  connected 
with  the  dramatic  tendency  which.  I  have  tried  to 
explain.  ...  His  characters  are  not  so  much 
images  made  in  imitation  of  living  models  as  natural 
combinations  of  all  that  his  mind  encloses,  of  what 
he  knows  or  what  he  thinks.  Everywhere  is  felt 
the  presence  of  a  peculiar  organisation  in  which  the 
imagination  never  sleeps,  in  which  the  mind  has 
the  curious  faculty  of  giving  birth  to  animated  phan- 
toms who  display  for  him  the  spectacle  of  their  acts. 
The  result  is  that  the  creations  of  his  brain  appear 
at  once  real  and  dreamlike.  It  is  the  common 
truth  projected  into  the  region  of  the  possible  and 
the  imaginable  ;  it  is  the  universal  tendency  de- 
veloped in  a  way  possible  to  one  individual  only. 

''  1  have  sought  to  bring  out  what  has  most 
struck  me  in  this  poetry,  which  has  so  strongly 
impressed  me.  I  believe  1  have  left  no  doubt  as 
to  the  worth  of  the  man  who  has  written  it.  As 
to  the  value  of  the  work  itself  in  so  far  as  it  is  a 


Ifrencb  Criticisms*  243 

medium  of  communication  between  the  author  and 
his  readers :  as  to  the  success  with  which  it  suc- 
ceeds in  making  comprehensible  to  others  that  which 
he  himself  has  conceived,  and  in  making  others  feel 
what  he  has  felt,  it  is  permitted  to  judge  differently. 
''  He  has  often  been  accused  of  a  superabundance 
of  asperities,  reservations,  and  obscurities,  of  every- 
where resisting  the  most  conscientious  efforts  at 
comprehension,  and  of  demanding  generally  a  labour 
of  mind  that  destroys  his  poetic  effects.  These 
reproaches  have  some  foundation  in  fact,  provided 
but  one  significance  is  attached  to  them  ;  for  to 
accuse  Mr.  Browning  of  intentional  oddity  would 
be  an  error.  Far  from  being  affected,  his  mistake 
lies  rather  in  the  direction  of  too  great  sincerity, 
too  little  calculation,  too  exclusive  an  endeavour 
to  render  precisely  what  he  feels.  In  reality,  Mr. 
Browning  is  a  writer  who  spares  himself  no  trouble, 
and  also  a  great  master  in  the  art  of  forcing  language 
to  convey  meanings  to  which  it  lends  itself  unwill- 
ingly ;  the  painful  as  well  as  the  admirable  side  of 
his  art  is  especially  due  to  that  which  he  knows 
well  how  to  give  to  his  expression,  the  veritable 
imprint  of  his  mind,  and  to  the  misfortune  and  hap- 
piness of  his  not  having  a  mind  like  everyone  else's. 
It  is  clear  that  his  intellect  sends  messengers  into 
regions  little  visited,  and  naturally  his  creations  can- 
not fail  to  have  something  of  the  unusual  about 
them.  The  intensity  of  his  conception  has  also  its 
disadvantages  as  well  as  its  advantages.    Thought 


244  Browning. 

seizes  him  so  violently  as  not  always  to  give  him 
freedom  for  considering  the  music  of  verse,  for 
satisfying  grammatical  logic,  for  truly  appreciating 
the  effect  of  his  words  upon  hearers  who  do  not 
know  in  advance  what  he  knows.  Moreover,  there 
is  about  him  an  indescribable  brusqueness,  a  love 
of  condensation  which  tends  to  make  his  poetry  very 
compact  and  to  fill  it  with  abridged  suggestions  and 
unexpected  allusions,  all  of  which  certainly  is  cal- 
culated to  throw  his  audience  off  the  track. 

''  On  the  other  hand,  many  of  these  peculiarities 
constitute  precisely  the  most  beautiful  qualities  of 
his  poetry  ;  and  among  those  which  may  rightly  be 
called  defects  more  than  one  seems  inseparably 
joined  to  a  tendency  of  mind  by  which  alone  he 
attains  his  merit. 

"What  remains,  then,  to  charge  against  the  au- 
thor himself?  Where  are  the  faults  he  might  have 
avoided?  Where  commence  those  of  the  reader 
who  cannot  understand  him  ?  Concerning  this  I 
avow  myself  incompetent  to  judge.  1  would  only 
remark  that  to  my  mind  a  large  proportion  of  Mr. 
Browning's  obscurity  comes  from  excessive  dramatic 
movement.  Besides  plunging  us  without  preparation 
into  the  midst  of  an  event,  he  lets  himself  stray  too 
often,  perhaps,  into  the  reproduction  of  the  inter- 
ruptions and  irregularities  of  natural  feelings. 

"But  these  are  very  minute  details  in  the  criti- 
cism of  a  foreign  author,  and  it  seems  to  me  more 
interesting  to  sum  up  in  a  few  words  the  position 


jfrencb  Criticisms.  245 

held  by  Mr.  Browning  in  a  literary  epoch  which,  to 
the  eyes  of  the  future,  will  be  not  less  remarkable, 
perhaps,  than  the  renaissance  of  the  sixteenth 
century. 

"  For  about  fifty  years  a  most  remarkable  move- 
ment of  ideas  has  taken  place  in  England.  For  the 
first  time  in  my  knowledge,  a  civilised  nation  has 
become  frightened  by  its  civilisation,  and  has  ap- 
plied itself  voluntarily  to  unlearning  its  skilfulness 
and  adroitness  in  order  that  it  might  return  to  sin- 
cerity. Poets  and  painters,  writers  and  critics,  agree 
in  holding  in  contempt  the  sorry  knowledge  that 
consists  in  recognising  what  a  work  may  be  and 
ought  to  be,  and  the  sorry  talent  which  consists  in 
ability  to  fashion  a  well  composed  production.  The 
entire  nation,  in  a  way,  unites  in  thinking  it  a  dis- 
grace for  a  man,  for  a  being  responsible  to  God  and 
to  himself  for  his  faculties,  and  capable  of  employing 
them  in  efforts  toward  the  good  and  the  true,  to 
waste  them  in  calculating  the  obligations  that  works 
of  art  should  fulfil. 

''Such  a  reaction  against  art  certainly  signifies 
much  willingness  of  spirit,  and  England  has  found 
her  recompense  in  becoming  the  school  in  which 
humanity  has  worked  hardest,  not  in  manufacturing 
constitutions  and  polishing  up  old  things,  but  in 
working  within  itself,  like  the  wine  in  the  vat,  to 
draw  from  its  own  depths  new  aptitudes,  qualities, 
and  organs.  Without  doubt  the  good  has  been 
mixed  with  evil  ;  and,  as  always  happens,  more  than 


246  Browning. 

one  poor  interpreter  has  been  found  to  give  to  the 
present  tendency  a  vulgar  meaning.  Thus,  much 
has  been  said,  and  too  much  is  still  said,  of  clinging 
in  poetry  or  in  painting  to  the  one  truth,  of  limiting 
oneself  humbly  to  the  study  of  God's  universe,  and 
of  bringing  divine  realities  out  into  the  light,  leaving 
behind  the  little  thoughts  of  our  little  brains.  Never- 
theless, these  exclusive  exaggerations  have  had  little 
influence  upon  poetry,  at  least,  and  it  is  certain  that 
up  to  the  present  time  the  tendency  of  the  intellect 
has  not  been  to  limit  it.  In  place  of  too  literal  imi- 
tation of  reality  it  has  interrogated  the  human  soul ; 
and,  in  becoming  in  turn  the  expression  of  moral 
sentiment,  of  passion,  and  of  imaginative  vision,  it 
has  only  increased  its  domain. 

''1  should  not  venture  to  say,  however,  that  I 
discern  nothing  of  menace  to  the  future  of  poetry, 
nothing  which  might,  if  exaggerated,  become  disas- 
trous to  her.  Sincerity  has  its  own  perils :  it  may 
annihilate  form,  in  the  arrangement  of  the  subject, 
and  that  is  the  direction  in  which  I  seem  to  see 
danger.  In  a  word  it  seems  to  me  that  poetic  lit- 
erature is  being  strongly  drawn  toward  something 
analogous  to  ancient  Gothic  art,  and  through  the 
same  causes. 

"  In  the  presence  of  one  of  our  old  Middle  Age 
cathedrals  it  is  not  difficult  to  recognise  a  certain 
excess  of  detail  or  certain  peculiarities  which  are 
more  or  less  grotesque.  Whence  come  these  dis- 
cordant elements  ? 


ffrencb  Criticisme.  247 

*Mt  is  hardly  possible  to  explain  these  deformities 
by  love  of  ugliness  ;  to  confine  oneself  to  saying  that 
if  the  Gothic  monument  satisfies  us  less  than  a  Greek 
temple,  it  is  because  the  Gothic  artists  had  less  feel- 
ing for  the  beautiful  than  Athenian  artists.  The 
great  single  lines  of  the  Middle  Age  fa9ade  attest  a 
profound  love  of  harmony  in  the  artist  who  conceived 
it ;  and  in  attentively  considering  it  more  elements 
of  beauty  are  quickly  perceived  than  are  necessary  to 
a  noble  effect.  If  the  cathedral,  as  it  is,  fails  to  give 
perfect  satisfaction,  it  is  because  in  addition  to  these 
elements  it  contains  others  of  quite  a  different  na- 
ture ;  because,  among  lines  designed  to  produce  a 
linear  effect,  details  have  slipped  in  which  are  lit- 
erally alphabetical  characters,  veritable  hieroglyphs 
whose  business  it  is  to  express  an  idea. 

"The  fa9ade  taken  altogether  is  like  those  pict- 
ures of  the  Middle  Ages  in  which  the  painter  has 
spoiled  the  pictorial  effect  of  his  people  by  putting 
into  their  mouths  legends,  and  streamers  on  which 
their  names  or  thoughts  are  inscribed.  If  I  am  not 
mistaken,  this  tendency  belongs  to  a  fundamental 
characteristic  of  the  minds  of  Teutonic  races,  who,  to 
some  extent,  are  responsible  for  Gothic  architecture. 
In  Hogarth  and  in  Albert  Diirer,  in  nearly  all  German 
painters  of  ancient  and  modern  times,  we  find  the 
same  characteristic,  half  symbolic,  half  artistic,  the 
same  complexity  of  intention,  the  same  mingling  of 
two  opposing  principles  :  of  an  active  principle  which 
tends  to  cause  a  sensation,  and  of  a  figurative  or 


248  Browning. 

linguistic  principle  which  is  addressed  to  the  under- 
standing and  which  seeks  to  interpret  the  feelings 
and  thoughts  of  the  painter  himself.  The  artist  is 
only  half  a  workman  ;  the  effect  produced  upon 
others  by  his  work,  or  rather  the  desire  to  produce  a 
certain  effect  by  his  work,  does  not  wholly  absorb 
him  ;  he  keeps  his  individual  sentiment,  the  activity 
of  his  faculties,  and  the  need  of  expressing  what  he 
has  felt  and  thought  while  exercising  them. 

"This  inclination  or  potency  of  the  Germanic 
character  is  precisely  the  force  that  seems  to  me  to 
be  now  at  work  in  English  literature ;  dogmatism 
tends  to  occupy  an  important  place  beside  the  emo- 
tional qualities.  Poetry  has  not  on  that  account  lost 
any  of  its  inspiration  ;  on  the  contrary,  it  has  never 
been  more  imaginative,  or  fuller  of  a  brave  ecstasy  ; 
but  it  is  less  content  merely  to  impress  the  reader, 
less  content  to  be  formed  for  that  end  alone  :  it  seeks 
rather  to  express  a  great  deal,  and  to  reflect  a  great 
deal  of  what  is  passing  in  the  mind  of  the  poet. 

''A  strong  aspiration  toward  expression  is,  in  a 
word,  what  to  my  mind  distinguishes  the  present 
epoch,  and  particularly  Mr.  Browning.  His  instinct 
draws  him  to  the  very  opposite  extreme  from  the 
Italians  who,  in  order  to  keep  poetry  in  its  purity, 
have  not  feared  to  impoverish  it.  He  would  like  to 
extend  his  domain  until  it  included  the  entire  sphere 
of  human  development.  To  think,  to  know,  and  to 
feel  all  that  can  be  known,  felt,  and  conceived ;  to 
retain  for  himself  all  this  experience  and  to  find  means, 


jfrencb  Criticisms.  249 

by  a  kind  of  continuous  pressure,  to  reduce  it  to  po- 
etic pictures — this  is  in  some  sort  the  task  he  has  set 
himself;  and  as  a  writer  he  might  be  said  to  limit 
himself  to  collecting,  among  the  inspirations  that 
come  to  him,  those  which  make  a  finished  chapter 
of  this  great  resume.  1  should  not  dare  affirm  that 
he  has  never  passed  the  boundaries  of  that  cadenced 
speech  which  together  with  thought  makes  music. 
Although  he  never  ceases  to  be  poetic,  he  falls  short 
sometimes  of  harmonious  composition.  While  all 
his  poems  are  rich  in  emotional  elements,  they  are 
not  all  of  them  calculated  above  everything  else  to 
produce  emotion.  Could  he  not  remedy  this  disad- 
vantage by  giving  more  marked  attention  to  the 
beauty  of  the  general  effect  ?  I  do  not  know.  It 
seems  to  me  that  in  his  Saul  and  in  many  another 
poem,  especially  in  the  Flight  of  the  Duchess,  he  has 
perfectly  succeeded  in  giving  to  beauty  of  effect  its 
full  share  of  importance  without  in  the  least  sacri- 
ficing his  dramatic  instincts  or  his  ability  to  express 
himself.  In  any  case,  what  there  is  perilous  in  his 
tendencies  does  not  affect,  or  at  least  is  not  inevitably 
inherent  in,  his  high  and  fine  conception  of  poetry  and 
the  part  it  should  play.  The  task  he  has  imposed 
upon  the  muse  may  possibly  be  beyond  her  strength  ; 
the  song,  that  is,  which  he  asks  her  to  sing  may  be 
too  complex  for  the  ear  of  the  mind  to  hear  without 
effort :  but  it  is  a  song  that  is  not  outside  her  pro- 
vince ;  much  more, — the  work  is  one  that  she  only 
can  accomplish.     In  reality  what  Mr.  Browning  has 


2  so  Browning. 

attempted  is  nothing  other  than  the  fusion  of  two 
styles  of  poetry  in  one.     .     .     . 

"  Whether  his  writings  are  taken  separately  or  in 
mass,  they  invariably  give  the  impression  of  an  ideal, 
a  design  which  is  never  completely  realised,  which 
is  hardly  a  decisive  choice,  but  toward  which  lean 
all  the  thoughts  and  words  of  the  poet.  This 
ideal  conceives  a  kind  of  poetry  that  shall  serve 
to  initiate,  shall  reveal  the  heart  of  things  through 
their  outer  aspect ;  a  poetry  that  shall  transport  from 
the  depths  of  the  mind  the  secrets  and  appearance  of 
reality,  that  shall  disclose  all  forms  of  the  events  that 
have  taken  place,  all  motives  that  have  helped  de- 
termine them,  all  forces  that  have  presided  over  them, 
— and  this  in  order  that  men  may  carry  in  their  breasts 
the  universal  history,  that  they  may  themselves  bear 
the  universe  with  them,  not  merely  the  aspect  of  it 
but  the  explanation,  its  phenomena  assigned  their 
true  pedigrees,  that  the  eye  of  the  intellect  may  per- 
ceive not  only  effects  the  causes  of  which  are  hidden, 
but  may  clearly  see  the  very  causes  themselves." 

After  M.  Milsand's  death,  the  depth  of  Brown- 
ing's affection  and  sorrow  silenced  him,  and  we  have 
no  In  Memoriam  to  preserve  the  record  of  a  friend- 
ship formed  in  the  strong  sentiment  of  middle  life 
from  many  favourable  elements.  A  letter  from 
Browning  to  Dr.  Furnivall  expressed  gratitude  for 
a  notice  of  Milsand  that  ''thrilled  him  through." 
''You  did  all  1  could  wish  in  the  way  of  sobriety 
and  succinctness,"  he  said,  ''as  well  as  adequate 


jfrencb  Criticisms.  251 

recognition  and  handsome  appreciation— adequate 
for  the  '  public ' — who  will  never  know  what  only  an 
intimate  of  thirty-five  years  knows  and  never  will 
attempt  to  put  into  words." 

In  1870  a  critic  less  persuaded  by  Browning's 
conviction  of  the  uses  of  poetry — M.  Louis  Etienne 
— combats  his  proposition  that  art  is  the  one  way 
possible  of  speaking  truth.  He  commences  by  ac- 
centuating Browning's  derivation  from  Shelley,  and 
finding  the  source  of  the  former's  originality  in 
his  devotion  to  the  very  different  methods  of  the 
latter. 

''When  in  painting,"  he  says,  'Mt  is  desired  to 
find  the  family  connection  existing  between  the 
works  of  different  hands,  connoisseurs  find  historical 
evidence  the  least  certain  :  from  the  drawing  they 
can  discern  with  more  exactitude  the  school  to 
which  an  artist  belongs ;  the  colour,  that  is  to  say, 
the  manner  in  which  each  sees  nature,  reveals  more 
obviously  the  lesson  received  by  the  disciple  from 
the  master.  It  is  the  same  in  poetry.  More  or  less 
exact  information  and  a  preface  added  by  Mr. 
Browning  to  some  pretended  letters  of  Shelley, 
justify  belief  in  the  predilections  and  affinities  at- 
taching the  former  to  the  latter.  We  prefer  to  trust 
to  the  form  of  his  first  works,  to  the  way  in  which 
he  composed  his  subject  and  grouped  his  characters. 

"  Whether  he  presented  a  philosophic  idea  by  the 
aid  of  dialogues  of  slow  solemnity  as  in  Paracelsus, 
or  whether  he  made  of  his  hero,  as  in  Sordello,  a 


252  Brownlna. 

pretext  for  developing  a  proposition  in  morality,  he 
inherited  undoubtedly  from  Shelley.  The  tone  of 
the  style  furnished  still  more  convincing  proof :  Mr. 
Browning  spread  over  abstract  material  the  same 
multiplicity  of  accumulated  images,  the  same  dead- 
ened colours,  the  same  flaws  and  refinements,  the 
same  prolixity  and  lack  of  clearness — with  this  differ- 
ence, that  where  Shelley  was  obscure,  Mr.  Browning 
was  indefinite. 

"Always,  if  the  painter  has  any  genius  for  his 
art,  he  finds  in  his  very  efforts  at  imitation  the 
secret  of  his  originality.  While  he  constrains  himself 
to  follow  his  model  faithfully,  his  nature  gradually 
gains  ascendancy ;  he  mingles  his  own  style  with 
that  of  his  master,  and  becomes  in  turn  a  master. 
The  chalk  becomes  bolder  in  his  fingers,  and  freeing 
itself  from  early  servitude,  follows  a  more  liberal 
movement ;  it  traces  lines  which  already  reveal  the 
natural  tendency  of  the  hand,  and  a  new  form  of 
design  is  found.  Then  the  brush  insists  upon  a  par- 
ticular tint ;  another  tone  dominates  the  work,  and 
there  is  a  different  way  of  deepening  or  merging 
shadows  :  the  hidden  sentiment  of  the  artist  dis- 
closes itself  in  a  colour  which  belongs  to  him.  He 
is  finally  himself,  original  in  spite  of  imitation.  The 
poet  proceeds  in  the  same  way.  The  path  followed 
by  Mr.  Browning  has  been  discovered  by  walking 
in  Shelley's  footsteps.  From  metaphysical  poems 
under  the  appearance  of  dramas  he  has  passed  to 
the  pure  dramatic  form,  and  the  tone  of  his  poems  in 


jfrencb  Crlticiems.  253 

which  the  serious  and  the  grotesque  now  jostle  each 
other  is  not  less  changed  than  the  design." 

The  development  thus  noted  brings  him  to  The 
Ring  and  the  Book,  in  which  a  defined  and  expressed 
purpose  takes  the  place  of  a  broad  general  tendency, 
and  this  purpose  is  not  easily  tenable  by  a  purely 
French  imagination.  M.  Etienne  explains  it  with 
zeal  and  patience  in  order  to  deny  its  value  in  poetry  : 

''  A  celebrated  goldsmith  of  Rome,  Castellani,  has 
found  a  secret  of  making  rings  which  excite  the  cu- 
riosity of  foreigners ;  he  mixes  with  gold  an  alloy 
which,  while  giving  the  ring  extreme  thinness,  per- 
mits it  to  be  twisted  in  all  directions  and  beaten  into 
an  infinite  number  of  shapes  of  flowers  and  orna- 
ments of  marvellous  delicacy.  When  the  hammer 
and  file  have  finished  their  work,  a  certain  acid  is 
used  that  causes  the  alloy  to  disappear :  you  then 
have  a  ring  of  pure  gold,  covered  with  fine  orna- 
mentation, and  very  light,  as  friable  as  the  Etruscan 
jewelry  discovered  among  the  excavations,  which 
falls  to  dust  if  carelessly  touched. 

''  Mr.  Browning  has  attempted  to  do  for  Pompil- 
ia's  murder  what  the  ingenious  goldsmith  does  every 
day  for  his  rings  ;  he  has  unearthed  a  book  contain- 
ing the  documents  of  that  old  affair,  and  has  thought 
that  by  mixing  with  them  the  alloy  of  his  imagination 
he  could  make  a  dramatic  poem  in  which  his  talent 
should  expand  over  a  quantity  of  animated  and 
pathetic  pages.  Up  to  this  point  all  goes  well ;  he  is 
within  his  right,  and  he  keeps  his  promise.    The 


2  54  Browning. 

poetic  ring  is  finished,  is  brilliant,  and  the  precious 
metal  is  not  lacking ;  but  the  author  believes  he  has 
attained  pure  gold— that  is  to  say,  reality.  He  gives 
to  poetry  the  pretension  of  discerning  the  truth  in  a 
case  where  human  judgment  can  but  doubt,  and  he 
has  undertaken  to  prove  this  general  proposition  by 
the  instance  of  an  antique  trial.  He  deludes  himself. 
Where  is  the  acid  that  shall  disengage  from  his  work 
its  element  of  poetic  fiction  ?  Had  he  found  it,  it 
must  simply  have  annihilated  his  poem.  When  truth 
is  to  be  sought  the  '  ring '  must  be  laid  aside  for  the 
'book.' 

"He  may  compare  himself  as  he  will  to  Doctor 
Faust  calling  up  the  dead,  to  the  prophet  Elisha 
restoring  to  life  the  son  of  the  Shunammite,  it  is  the 
task  of  the  historian,  not  of  the  poet,  painfully  and 
scrupulously  to  discover  truth  among  the  cinders  of 
the  past.  Is  it  indeed  true  that  Pompilia  was  im- 
maculate, Franceschini  absolutely  a  monster,  Capon- 
sacchi  impeccable,  as  he  has  represented  them  ?  Did 
everything  take  place  as  he  is  pleased  to  imagine  ? 
Is  it  credible,  to  consider  but  one  other  circumstance, 
that  Pope  Innocent  XII.  had  the  thoughts  which  he 
gives  him  upon  the  coming  century  and  the  genera- 
tions yet  unborn  ? 

"He  himself  has  created  these  people,  and  that 
after  all  is  why  they  interest  us.  Certainly  poetry 
cannot  pass  for  the  pure  gold  of  truth  ;  let  us  not 
confuse  what  nature  has  separated  ;  let  us  fear  lest, 
by  asking  more  than  it  can  give,  we  lose  it. 


jfrencb  Cdticlema.  255 

"All  those  who  pretend  to  make  out  of  poetry 
pure  criticism,  pure  morality,  or  pure  religion,  seem 
like  careless  travellers  who  buy  the  fragile  ornaments 
we  have  just  described,  hastily  pack  them,  and  find 
them  on  their  return  nothing  but  a  bit  of  powder  in 
the  bottom  of  the  trunk. 

"  We  have  said  that  the  idea  of  this  general  pro- 
position sustained  by  Mr.  Browning  has  doubtless 
added  to  the  length  of  his  poem.  We  cannot  other- 
wise explain  the  multiplicity  of  versions  which  he 
presents  of  the  same  fact.  In  substituting  his  drama 
for  the  authentic  and  complete  narrative,  he  must 
give  speech  to  all  the  witnesses,  all  the  orators  or 
chief  judges  who  figure  in  the  suit.  In  spite  of  all 
the  resources  of  wit,  eloquence,  satire,  and  humour 
by  which  he  seeks  to  conceal  the  length  and  mo- 
notony, he  has  made  of  his  poetic  composition  an 
interrninable  pile  of  legal  documents.  Length  usually 
brings  in  its  train  carelessness  of  detail.  Mr.  Brown- 
ing can  no  more  escape  this  law  than  the  racer  in  too 
extended  a  course  can  fail  to  lose  the  appearance  of 
alertness  and  nimbleness.  We  do  not  advise  open- 
ing his  book  with  too  fresh  a  recollection  of  Tenny- 
son's verse,  full  of  wise  scholarship,  and  the  facility 
of  art.  This  degree  of  necessary  perfection,  which 
Mr.  Browning  has  not,  and  in  which  a  gigantic  work 
cannot  fail  to  be  especially  deficient,  brings  back  our 
thought  to  the  poet's  beginnings.  Shelley,  who  is 
much  more  correct,  has  written  a  page  against  the 
labour  of  style,  the  limce  labor  of  which  the  Latin  poet 


256  Browning. 

speaks.  Mr.  Browning  belongs  to  the  school  which 
has  profited  more  by  the  lesson  than  by  the  example 
of  the  master. 

"After  having  surveyed  the  complete  round  of 
Mr.  Browning's  works  we  might  be  tempted  to  be- 
lieve that  he  has  returned  to  his  point  of  departure,— 
that  he  has  aimed  in  The  Ring  and  the  Book  as  in  his 
Paracelsus  at  demonstrating  a  general   proposition. 
On  closer  examination  this  resemblance  disappears. 
A  philosophical  idea  reigns  in  his  early  writings  and 
so  fills  them  that  if  it  were  discarded  by  the  author 
nothing  perceptible  would  remain.    The  characters 
are  so  penetrated  by  this  idea  that  if  it  were  sup- 
pressed they  would  have  nothing  left  to  say.     Such 
is  not  the  case  with  the  poem  which  furnishes  occa- 
sion for  the  present  study.    The  thesis  Mr.  Browning 
has  been  pleased  to  add  is  independent  of  the  actors 
among  whom  the  different  roles  are  divided.    Take 
away  this  general  conception  that  poetry  can  reach 
historic  truth  better  than  witnesses,  lawyers,  judges, 
and  history  itself,  the  drama  remains  what  it  was— 
neither  the  passions  nor  the  feelings  nor  the  roles  have 
changed.    The  work  has  lost  nothing  ;  we  have  seen 
in  fact  that  it  would  gain  in  rapidity.    This  concep- 
tion is  not  the  soul  of  the  book  ;  it  is  reduced  to  a 
theory  that  serves  as  preface— a  very  contestable 
theory  and  one  that  the  author  for  the  sake  of  his 
own  success  would  do  well  to  lay  aside,  as  may  be 
said  of  so  many  other  prefaces. 

"  In  place,  then,  of  leading  the  poet  back  to  his 


Robert  Brownhtg. 


From  a  photograph  taken  a  few  days 
before  his  last  illness. 


jfrencb  Criticieme.  257 

starting-point,  The  Ring  and  the  Book  marks  the  dis- 
tance he  has  travelled  from  it.  Philosophic  thought 
was  not  his  true  domain,  any  more  than  the  theatre 
in  which  he  multiplied  his  fruitless  attempts,  to  which 
he  brought  too  much  individual  psychology  and  too 
many  moral  analyses.  He  was  moved  to  revive  the 
men  of  the  past,  not  to  set  them  in  action,  but  merely 
for  the  pleasure  of  seeing  them  breathe  and  take  up 
life,  feeling,  and  speech  again. 

''  The  theory  we  have  just  disputed  is  not  an  in- 
vention of  afterthought.  Mr.  Browning  must  be- 
lieve that  the  poet  evokes  the  dead  from  their  tomb 
like  the  witch  of  Endor ;  he  must  have  persuaded 
himself  that  poetry  is  the  school  of  history  and  criti- 
cism. This  among  his  ideas  is  the  supreme  one,  and  it 
is  unnecessary  to  show  its  exaggeration.  It  is  diffi- 
cult to  sound  the  thought  of  those  about  us  whom 
we  see  daily ! 

Tous  les  coeurs  sont  caches,  tout  homme  est  un  abtme. 

How  can  we  read  with  certainty  the  souls  of  men 
who  are  centuries  dead  ?  Poetry  is  not  the  precise 
instrument  fit  to  unveil  these  mysteries,  but  it  can  do 
better  things  :  it  can  create  men  and  character.  Mr. 
Browning  has  created  Saul,  Pompilia,  a  crowd  of 
other  true  and  living  people ;  what  more  does  his 
ambition  demand  ?  " 

These  notices,  written  before  the  rise  of  the  earli- 
est Browning  society,  are  interesting  not  only  for  the 
impressions  they  record,  but  also  as  showing  that 


258 


Browning. 


Browning  was  never  really  an  obscure  and  un- 
known poet.  His  honey  was  first  extracted  by  the 
lively  bees  of  French  and  American  criticism,  and 
appreciation  in  his  native  circle  came  late  ;  but  there 
was  never  a  decade  after  1840  when  he  was  not 
recognised  by  the  adjudicators  of  letters  as  a  stim- 
ulating influence  in  literature. 


CHAPTER  XIII. 
BROWNING   SOCIETIES. 

THE  most  remarkable  phenomenon  in  Brown- 
ing's history  is  one  connected  entirely  with 
his  literary  life  :  the  descent  upon  his  work, 
that  is,  of  a  cloud  of  witnesses  to  its  value  and  inter- 
est, who  did  for  him  in  a  more  or  less  commonplace 
way  what  Ruskin  did  for  Turner  by  the  eloquent 
force  of  his  immense  appreciation. 

In  his  Victorian  Poets  Mr.  Stedman  describes  the 
event  from  a  detached  point  of  view. 

''The  sudden  uprising  of  many  Browning  clubs 
is  the  latest  symptom  of  the  rage  for  elucidation,"  he 
says.  ''  The  like  of  it  has  not  been  witnessed  since 
the  days  of  the  neo-Platonists  and  grammarians ; 
nor  were  there  a  thousand  printing-presses  at  the 
command  of  the  Alexandrian  scholiasts.  Not  only 
more  than  one  University  quadrangle,  but  every 
mercantile  town,  from  London,  where  the  poet 
dwells,  to  the  farthest  outpost  of  the  Western  conti- 
nent, has  its  central  Browning  Society,  from  which 
dependents  radiate  like  the  little  spiders  that  spin 

259 


26o  Brownina* 

their  tiny  strands  near  the  maternal  web.  Emerson 
was  a  seer ;  Browning  is  a  virile  poet  and  scholar ; 
but  it  has  been  the  same  with  the  followers  of  both. 
A  Browning  student  of  the  first  order  can  do  much 
for  us,  while  one  of  the  third  or  fourth  remove— 
whose  degree  is  expressed  algebraically  as  B  f,  or  v^g 
— may  be  and  often  is  as  prosaic  a  claimant  to  special 
illumination  as  one  is  apt  to  meet.  The  '  study ' 
of  Browning  takes  strong  hold  upon  theorists, 
analysts,  didacticians,  who  care  little  for  poetry  in 
itself,  and  who,  like  Chinese  artists,  pay  more  re- 
spect to  the  facial  dimensions  of  his  Muse  than  to 
her  essential  beauty  and  the  divine  light  of  her  eyes. 
The  master  himself  may  well  view  with  distrust  cer- 
tain phases  of  a  movement  originating  with  his 
more-favoured  disciples  ;  nor  is  poetry  that  requires 
annotation  in  its  own  time  surer,  on  that  account,  of 
supremacy  in  the  future.  Perhaps  the  best  that  can 
be  said  of  this  matter  is  that  something  out  of  the 
common  is  needed  to  direct  attention  to  a  great 
original  genius,  and  to  secure  for  a  poet,  after  his 
long  experience  of  neglect,  some  practical  return 
for  the  fruits  of  his  imagination." 

The  first  visible  sign  and  portent  of  what  has 
flippantly  been  called  the  ''Browning  craze"  oc- 
curred in  America  in  1877,  when  Professor  Corson 
started  the  Cornell  Browning  Club.  Four  years 
later  the  London  Browning  Society  was  inaugur- 
ated ;  in  1885  the  present  Boston  Browning  Soci- 
ety, and  in  1888  the  Browning  Society  of  the  New 


Browning  Societies.  261 

Century  Club  of  Philadelphia.  In  Cleveland,  Ohio, 
a  Browning  Club  was  formed  in  the  same  year  as 
the  London  Society,  and  in  Baltimore,  Chicago,  and 
other  American  cities,  as  well  as  in  Australia  and 
Wales,  societies  have  been  organised.  Some  of 
these  have  passed  briefly  and  brilliantly  across  the 
horizon  ;  others,  notably  the  Boston  and  Philadel- 
phia societies,  have  continued  to  give  steady  light 
and  have  made  permanent  additions  to  Browning 
literature.  The  admirable  library  of  the  Boston  So- 
ciety and  the  recent  Camberwell  edition  of  Brown- 
ing's works,  edited  by  two  members  of  the  Phila- 
delphia Society,  are  examples  of  the  practical  results 
attained  by  them. 

In  addition  to  these  more  important  organisa- 
tions, a  large  number  of  satellites  in  the  form  of  pri- 
vate "clubs,"  reading  circles,  and  school  "unions" 
have  been  discovered  since  Browning,  almost  half 
a  century  after  the  publication  of  his  first  poem, 
became  an  idol. 

The  range  from  the  sublime  to  the  ridiculous  is 
conspicuous  when  the  societies  are  regarded  as  a 
whole.  Mr.  Curtis  once  gave  an  account  of  an 
American  club  which  decided  to  add  secrecy  to  its 
other  charms,  and  immediately  gave  a  reception  at 
which  everything  was  brown  :  the  brown  tablecloth 
covered  with  brown  china,  brown  bread,  and  brown 
sugar  served  with  the  refreshments ;  the  windows 
hung  with  brown  curtains,  and  the  hostesses 
dressed  in  brown.    As  must  have  been  expected. 


262  Browning. 

the  American  faculty  for  guessing  was  not  severely 
taxed,  and  the  club  had  the  pleasure  of  publicity 
without  the  shame  of  open  confession. 

In  America,  in  fact,  the  zeal  of  Browning's  fol- 
lowers exceeded  as  well  as  preceded  that  of  his 
English  admirers. 

The  devotion  of  Levi  Thaxter  as  ''a  missionary 
and  pioneer "  foreshadowed  the  interest  from  which 
the  American  societies  grew  ;  and  it  was  through  a 
review  of  Bells  and  Pomegranates  written  by  Miss 
Fuller  for  the  Tribune  that  the  poet  was  introduced 
to  the  general  public,  about  four  years  after  the 
Boston  edition  of  Tennyson  had  met  with  its  enthusi- 
astic reception. 

In  England,  altogether  the  most  interesting  and 
suggestive  of  the  minor  societies  is  the  one  in  Wal- 
worth, where  the  Congregational  chapel,  which  the 
young  Browning  attended  with  his  parents,  is  now 
converted  into  a  hall  bearing  his  name,  the  home  of  a 
settlement  of  working  people,  some  of  whom  are 
said  to  read  AM  Vogler  and  Paracelsus  with  avidity 
and  discrimination.  Mr.  Stead,  who  has  this  settle- 
ment in  charge,  conceived  the  idea  of  instructing  the 
Walworth  children  in  Browning's  life  and  poetry,  as 
the  children  of  Rydal  and  Grasmere  are  taught  some 
knowledge  and  love  of  Wordsworth.  After  a  year 
of  Browning  study  the  children  made  him  and  his  po- 
etry the  subject  of  essays  in  a  competition  between 
the  Walworth  Board  Schools,  and  the  result  showed 
rather  sadly  some  of  the  defects  of  the  average 


Browning  Societies,  263 

literary  society's  qualities.  The  competitors  made 
very  clear  the  impression  the  poet's  cheerfulness  and 
energy  had  produced  upon  them  ;  but  the  prize 
paper  closed  with  the  remarkable  statement  that  Mrs. 
Browning  wrote  three  volumes  of  poetry  about  her 
husband's  death  ! 

The  peculiarity  of  most  of  these  organisations  has 
been  their  existence  during  the  life  of  the  poet  who 
constitutes  their  reason  for  being  ;  and  this  peculiarity 
has  introduced  a  personal  element  into  the  feeling  so 
ardently  displayed  for  and  against  them.  Dr.  Furni- 
vall,  the  founder  of  the  London  Society,  surveyed  the 
situation  in  a  characteristic  address  to  his  fellow- 
members  at  the  time  of  Browning's  death.  The 
following  extract  shows  his  point  of  view. 

''Since  our  last  meeting,"  he  said,  ''we  have 
suffered  a  terrible  blow  in  the  loss  of  the  great  poet 
in  whose  honour  this  Society  was  founded.  It  is 
not  for  me  to  say  much  of  his  character  or  the  char- 
acter of  his  work  to-night.  You  have  shown  by 
your  adhesion  to  the  Society  and  your  earnest  study 
of  him  that  you  hold  him  to  be  one  of  the  greatest 
poets  of  our  Victorian  time.  It  must  be  a  strong 
satisfaction  to  you,  as  it  is  to  me,  that  nine  years  ago 
you  came  forward  out  of  the  crowd  of  people,  many 
of  whom  ridiculed  him  while  others  unjustly  neg- 
lected him,  to  declare  that  you  thought  him  worthy 
of  the  best  study  of  his  contemporaries,  and  of  all 
time.  It  is  all  very  well  for  people  to  say  now  that 
they  have  always  thought  greatly  of  Browning  and 


264  Browning. 

held  him  in  high  esteem  ;  we  know  too  well  from 
the  restricted  sale  of  his  works,  and  the  opinions  once 
expressed,  that  this  was  not  the  case.  We  do  not 
want  to  take  more  credit  to  this  Society  or  to  our- 
selves than  is  due  to  us,  but  the  effect  of  the  Society's 
work,  and  the  good  it  did,  was  to  challenge  and 
compel  attention  to  this  great  poet.  Ours  is  the 
only  Society  ever  founded  during  the  life  of  a  poet  in 
the  honour  of  that  poet,  and  for  the  study  of  his 
works.  That  circumstance  alone  challenged  atten- 
tion— notwithstanding  sneers  from  fools — to  the  fact 
that  there  was  a  great  poet  lying  hidden  in  those 
works  which  they  had  not  studied  ;  and  both  here 
and,  splendidly,  in  America  an  answer  was  given  to 
that  challenge  of  ours.^  We  did  not  make  Browning 
a  great  poet ;  he  was  a  great  poet,  only  people  would 
not  listen  to  him,  owing  to  the  superficial  difficulty 
of  his  expression,  and  a  certain  want  of  music  in 
many  of  his  poems.  But  as  soon  as  people  took  him 
up  seriously,  he  vindicated  his  right  to  be  the  great 
poet  and  the  noble  soul  that  he  was.  I  think  it  must 
have  been  a  satisfaction  to  every  one  of  us,  when  we 
heard  the  mournful  news  of  the  poet's  death,  that  as 
members  of  this  Society  he  and  she  had  stood  out  for 
this  long  time  his  open  admirers  and  open  declarers 
of  what  his  greatness  consisted  in.  We  have  seen 
remarks  in  newspapers  and  elsewhere,  written  by 
silly  people  who  knew  not  what  they  were  writing, 

'  It  has  already  been  shown  that  America's  "  answer  "  to  Dr.  Furnivall's  challenge 
antedated  the  challenge. 


Browning  Societies.  265 

about  the  adulation  and  inconsiderate  admiration 
shown  here  for  Mr.  Browning.  Every  member  of 
the  Society  knows  that  the  utmost  freedom  has  been 
used  by  us  in  criticising  him.  As  Mr.  Revell  said  in 
the  committee-room  this  evening,  no  harder  things 
have  been  said  about  Browning  than  have  been  said 
in  this  Society.  But  it  was  because  we  acknow- 
ledged his  greatness  that  we  felt  ourselves  justified  in 
criticising  those  weaknesses  and  deficiencies  in  poetic 
art  which  we  found  in  his  works,  and  which  we  felt 
limited  his  usefulness  and  the  appreciation  of  him  by 
other  people.  We  said  in  our  original  prospectus 
that  we  would  allow  the  utmost  freedom  in  dis- 
cussion ;  we  wished  it,  and  it  has  always  been 
exercised  with  Mr.  Browning's  entire  approval.  He 
was  not  one  of  those  men  who  wanted  adulation  or 
servile  following  :  he  wanted  men  to  know  him  ; 
but  he  knew  there  must  be  differences  of  opinion 
between  himself  and  his  admirers,  and  he  was  con- 
tent to  have  it  so.  The  mere  fact  that  his  great 
work  in  the  world  was  the  expression  of  a  confident 
belief  in  immortality  and  the  existence  of  his  belief  in 
God  and  the  soul,  and  that  1  (who  with  Miss  Hickey 
founded  this  Society)  differed  entirely  from  those 
views  and  was  a  known  agnostic,  ought  to  have 
convinced  everybody  that  there  was  no  stupid  flat- 
tery used  here.  But  you  cannot  stop  the  cackling  of 
geese  ;  we  just  notice  it  and  pass  it  by." 

The  cackling  of  the  ''geese"  who  have  found 
matter  for  amusement  in  the  methods  of  the  Browning 


266  Browning. 

societies  is  not,  however,  wholly  directed  against 
their  sending  a  flattering  smile  on  the  wayward  track 
of  the  poet.  The  explanatory  attitude  of  these  or- 
ganisations is  the  thing  resented  by  the  class  who 
desire  no  guide  in  their  literary  wanderings.  The 
sight  of  an  article  in  which  the  meaning  of  Andrea 
del  Sarto,  or  the  value  of  Bishop  Blougram's  Apology, 
or  the  philosophy  of  AM  l^ogler  is  discussed  affects 
them  as  the  sight  of  a  Baedeker  affects  the  passion- 
ate pilgrim  in  the  places  he  most  loves.  Their  con- 
tention is  admirably  stated  by  Mr.  Appleton  Morgan 
in  an  article  in  Science  for  May  9,  1890,  comparing 
the  relative  justification  and  usefulness  of  the  Shake- 
speare and  Browning  societies.  The  following  quot- 
ation contains  the  cream  of  the  argument : 

"  When  the  poetry  of  a  certain  poet,  however 
magnificent,  is  merely  delineation  of,  or  soliloquy 
concerning,  that  of  which  all  the  race  is  tenant  in 
common  along  with  the  poet,  it  would  seem  as  if 
the  organisation  of  a  great  society  or  a  learned  acad- 
emy to  penetrate  that  particular  poetry  or  that  par- 
ticular poet,  was  rather  what  we  call  a  '  fad '  or  a 
crotchet,  than  a  work  of  any  value  to  anybody.  To 
illustrate  the  situation  by  use  of  an  honoured  name 
(to  which  name  I  have  no  wish  to  allude  other  than 
with  the  highest  respect)  :  the  death  of  Mr.  Robert 
Browning  has  terminated  what  I  think  is  one  of  the 
most  wonderful— certainly  the  most  unprecedented 
— phenomena  in  literature  ;  namely,  the  spectacle 
of  a  poet  writing  poetry,  and  of  the  simultaneous 


Brownlna  Societies.  267 

organisation  on  two  continents  of  learned  societies  to 
comprehend  that  poetry  as  fast  as  it  was  written, 
hideed,  the  remark  of  the  witty  person — that,  just  as 
great  physical  works  are  beyond  the  capacity  of  in- 
dividuals, and  so  must  be  entrusted  to  corporations, 
so  the  comprehension  of  Mr.  Browning's  poetry, 
being  beyond  the  single  intellect,  was  committed  to 
aggregations  of  intellect  known  as  '  Browning  socie- 
ties ' — appears  to  have  been  less  a  bon  mot,  and  much 
nearer  the  truth,  than  had  been  generally  supposed  ; 
for  Dr.  Furnivall  tells  us  why  he  founded  the  original 
Browning  Society.  '  The  main  motive  for  taking  the 
step,'  says  the  excellent  Doctor,  '  was  some  talk  and 
writing  of  a  certain  cymbal-tinkler  being  a  greater 
poet  (that  is,  maker)  than  Browning.  1  could  n't 
stand  that ! '  which  rather  appears  to  be  only  an- 
other way  of  saying  that  Browning  was  in  danger 
of  being  neglected  simply  because  people  could  not 
readily  ascertain  whether  there  was  anything  in  him 
to  study  ;  and  so  that  organisations  must  be  farmed, 
not  to  study  something  or  other  that  was  in  him,  but 
to  find  out  if  that  something  or  other  was  there. 

''  What  I  propose  in  this  paper  is  an  attempt  to 
show  that,  unlike  the  Browning  Society,  the  Shake- 
speare Society  is  not  an  institution  of  this  character, 
not  organised  to  worship  Shakespeare,  or  to  study 
the  Shakespearian  method  and  form  :  but  that  it  is  an 
institution  productive  of  real  benefit,  because  its  pur- 
pose is  to  study  the  matter  (the  material)  in  which 
Shakespeare   deals  ;    because  we    know  that   this 


268  Browning. 

matter  is  in  him,  without  the  organisation  of  any 
preliminary  parsing  societies— simply  because,  so 
unapproachably  simple  and  coherent  and  scientific 
is  his  form,  we  are  able  at  a  glance  to  ascertain 
whether  he  is  worth  studying  or  not. 

''Indeed,  it  would  appear,  from  this  very  state- 
ment of  the  founder  of  Browning  societies,  that  he 
himself  perfectly  understood  that  a  study  of  Brown- 
ing merely  meant  a  study  of  the  particular  Browning 
expression,   fashion,   method,   form   (or  neglect  of 
form,  of  which  Browning  himself  boasts  in  his  The 
Inn  Album).    And,  if  this  were  the  excellent  found- 
er's meaning,  we  can  well  understand  that  he  was 
right :  for  certainly,  if  Mr.  Browning's  own  contem- 
porary must  quarry  in  Mr.  Browning's  poetry— must 
go  at  him  with  pick  and  spade  just  as  a  twenty-sec- 
ond-century grammarian  might  do,  he  must  not  ex- 
pect the  yield  he  unearths  to  be  any  secret  of  his  own 
century,  anything  not  already  his  own  property  in 
common  with  Browning  himself,  anything  he  did 
not  know  before,  or  could  not  have  procured  with 
less  or  equal  labour  elsewhere, — for  certainly  Mr. 
Browning  had  no  sources  of  information,  or  access 
to  sources  of  information,  which  his  contemporaries 
did  and  do  not  enjoy,  or  cannot  procure.    What  the 
Browning  Society  occupies  itself  with,  then,  must 
be  exactly  that  which,  had  Shakespeare  societies 
been   organised   during   Shakespeare's   lifetime,    or 
immediately  after  his  death,  those  societies  would 
have  been  occupied  with  as  to  Shakespeare.     The 


Browning  Societies.  269 

Shakespeare  societies  of  1600-16  would  have  found 
themselves  in  precisely  the  same  position  as  to  their 
poet  as  are  our  Browning  societies  to  theirs.  Their  aim 
would  have  necessarily  been,  not  to  learn  about  their 
own  century,  about  their  own  manners,  their  own 
customs,  their  own  emotions,  sensations,  habits,  and 
speech,  from  the  writings  of  one  of  themselves,  but 
would  have  been  limited  simply  to  a  study  and  in- 
terpretation of  William  Shakespeare's  expression  of 
his  delineation  of  those  customs,  sensations,  and 
emotions." 

After  a  fascinating  description  of  the  form  taken 
by  Shakespeare's  ''scientific  imagination,"  the  way 
in  which  he  wrote  for  that  poor  and  mean  and  barren 
stage  on  which  he  walked,  plays  that  justified  and 
described  ''the  opulence  and  summit  of  dramatic 
art,"  and  preserved  for  the  societies  which  should 
bear  his  name  records  of  the  Elizabethan  and  Ja- 
cobean ages  whose  central  figure  he  was, — the  writer 
asks  if  any  such  records  of  the  nineteenth  century  are 
to  be  found  in  Browning's  poetry,  if  any  societies  of 
future  centuries  will  look  to  him  for  the  folk-lore,  the 
manners,  the  motley  mise-en-scene  of  our  present 
world.  The  answer,  of  course,  is  in  the  negative. 
Then  are  these  Browning  societies,  he  asks,  anything 
more  than  "  societies  for  the  working-out  of  conun- 
drums, or  puzzles,  or  rebuses ;  not  perhaps  adult 
parsing  societies,  but  societies  organised  to  ask  what 
well-known  sentiment  could  Mr.  Browning  have  in- 
tended to  express  in  these  five  words,  what  perfectly 


270  Browning. 

familiar  proposition  of  morals  did  he  mean  to  re- 
state by  those  six,  etc.  ?  " 

A  negative  answer  to  this  question  is  not  even 
implied — it  is  left  to  the  reader,  and  the  reader  familiar 
with  the  work  of  the  most  intelligent  Browning  so- 
cieties will  be  able  to  answer  in  the  affirmative. 
"Nevertheless  it  is  true  that  this  appears  to  be  the 
rock  on  which  these  institutions  founder  in  their 
voyage  toward  public  respect. 

There  is  a  certain  excuse  for  treating  Browning  in 
the  way  that  Mr.  Morgan  approves  when  Shake- 
speare is  in  question,  since  Browning  to  all  intents 
and  purposes  is  not  a  modern  poet.  A  contem- 
porary ''going  at  him  with  pick  and  spade"  does 
not,  of  course,  disclose  any  new  thing  about  our 
own  century,  but  may,  on  the  other  hand,  disclose 
a  good  many  facts  about  previous  centuries  with 
which  ''the  general  reader"  is  not  familiar.  And 
Browning  societies,  like  all  other  literary  societies, 
are  much  more  for  "the  general  reader"  than  for 
the  expert. 

Dr.  Berdoe,  in  his  preface  to  his  Browning  Cyclo- 
pcedia,  declares  justly  enough  that  it  "would  be  af- 
fectation to  pretend  to  believe  that  every  educated 
person  ought  to  know,  without  the  aid  of  such  a  work 
as  this,  what  Browning  means  by  phrases  and  allu- 
sions which  may  be  found  by  hundreds  in  his  works. 
The  wisest  reader  cannot  be  expected  to  remember, 
even  if  he  has  ever  learned,  a  host  of  remote  incidents 
in  Italian  history,  for  example,  to  say  nothing  of 


iBrownlng  Societies.  271 

classical  terms  which  every  schoolboy  ought  to 
know,  but  rarely  does." 

There  is  certainly  no  occasion  to  animadvert 
against  the  pious  zeal  that  annotates  and  fills  out 
poetry  too  erudite  for  human  nature's  daily  food  ; 
that  provides  dictionaries  and  abridged  histories, 
and  articles  on  technical  phraseology.  Such  work 
abounds  in  the  published  papers  of  the  various 
Browning  societies,  and  includes  the  interesting 
comparison  of  Browning's  dramatis  personce  with 
their  historic  prototypes  ;  and  by  work  of  this  kind 
the  Browning  associates  ought,  perhaps,  to  be  judged 
instead  of  by  their  avowed  intentions. 

Their  temptation  to  discard  the  method  of  the 
arch^ologist  and  read  meanings  into  poems  that  speak 
for  themselves  is  what  puts  the  patience  of  the  pub- 
lic to  the  test.  When  Mr.  Kirkman  advises  treat- 
ment of  ''special  poems  which  need  a  key,  being 
enigmatical,  as  Childe  Roland,"  and  Dr.  Berdoe  sug- 
gests that  even  an  intelligent  reader  needs  help  to 
get  ''the  main  purport"  of  Browning's  poems; 
when  Dr.  Furnivall  is  cajoled  into  analysing  the 
grammatical  construction  of  Lyric  Love  and  is  obliged 
finally  to  explain  the  whole  pathetic  poem  in  prose 
for  those  who  could  not  understand  it  with  or  with- 
out the  aid  of  a  grammarian  :  then  the  idle  public  in- 
stantly decides  that  if  all  that  trouble  is  needed  before 
Browning  can  be  understood  the  game  is  not  worth 
the  candle  ;  and  the  readers  who  love  Browning  for 
Browning's  sake  are  reminded  of  the  judge  who, 


2  72  Brownina- 

having  intimated  to  the  defendant's  counsel  that  the 
case  would  probably  go  in  his  favour,  was  yet  obliged 
to  listen  to  a  long  argument  on  the  side  of  the  defence. 
''Nevertheless,"  said  the  judge  at  the  end,  ''the 
court  is  still  with  you." 

The  court  is  still  with  Browning,  certainly,  but 
whether  because  or  in  spite  of  the  efforts  of  the 
Browning  societies  can  hardly  be  determined  satis- 
factorily. It  is  quite  probable  that,  as  Dr.  Furnivall 
believes,  the  sale  of  his  books  was  much  increased  by 
the  agitation  of  his  admirers,  and  that  he  came  into 
his  own  the  sooner  for  their  persistency.  Whether 
the  reaction  balanced  the  favourable  effects  is  another 
story  to  be  told  by  another  generation.  The  cham- 
pionship of  contemporary  poets  has  a  danger  to 
which  Browning's  own  sentiment  expressed  in  these 
general  terms  is  pertinent : 

Oh,  if  we  draw  a  circle  premature, 

Heedless  of  far  gain, 
Greedy  for  quick  returns  of  profit,  sure 

Bad  is  our  bargain. 

Mark  Antony's  reflection  upon  life  is  reversed  in 
the  case  of  poetry:  the  good  men  write  lives  after 
them,  and  the  evil  may  well  be  interred  with  their 
bones.  A  poet  with  a  touch  of  genius  may  safely 
leave  his  reputation  to  posterity ;  and  when  we 
think  of  Browning's  wholesome,  manly  way  of  meet- 
ing adversity,  of  the  many  sides  on  which  he  touched 
happiness,  and  of  the  incommunicable  flavour  of  his 
best  work,  the  picture  is  undeniably  marred  by  that 


Browning  Societlee.  273 

astonishing  phenomenon  of  the  Browning  Society 
comforting  his  entirely  resolute  heart  and  increasing 
his  adequate  income  by  furthering  the  sale  of  his 
books.  His  own  letter  upon  the  subject,  which  has 
frequently  been  quoted,  shows  the  profound  amiability 
of  his  nature,  prone  to  feel  gratitude  and  most  un- 
ready to  show  rudeness. 

''The  Browning  Society,  I  need  not  say,  as  well 
as  Browning  himself,  are  fair  game  for  criticism,"  he 
writes.  ''  I  had  no  more  to  do  with  the  founding  it 
than  the  babe  unborn,  and,  as  Wilkes  was  no  Wilkes- 
ite,  I  am  quite  other  than  a  Browning-ite.  But  I 
cannot  wish  harm  to  a  society  of,  with  a  few  excep- 
tions, names  unknown  to  me,  who  are  busied  about 
my  books  so  disinterestedly.  The  exaggerations 
probably  come  of  the  fifty-years-long  charge  of  un- 
intelligibility  against  my  books  ;  such  reactions  are 
possible,  though  I  never  looked  for  the  beginning  of 
one  so  soon.  That  there  is  a  grotesque  side  to  the 
thing  is  certain,  but  I  have  been  surprised  and  touched 
by  what  cannot  but  have  been  well-intentioned,  1 
think.  Anyhow,  as  I  never  felt  inconvenienced  by 
hard  words,  you  will  not  expect  me  to  wax  bump- 
tious because  of  undue  compliment :  so  enough  of 
'Browning,'— except  that  he  is  yours  very  truly, 
'  while  this  machine  is  to  him.'  " 


INDEX. 


music  teacher  of  Browning, 

172-175,    178- 


i33> 


Abel,  Mr. 

10 
y4ht    Fogler,   14, 

182,  266 
Academy,  The,  on  tiie  conversation  of 

Browning's  characters,  107 
Agamemnon   of  /^schylus,  The,  204  ; 

quotations  from,  232,  233 
Agrippa,     Henry    Cornelius,   quotations 

from,  in  Pauline,  18,  236 
Alchemy,  Hohenheim's  definition  of,  24 
Alexander,     Professor,    on    Browning's 

later  work,  218,  219 
Alton  Towers,  202 
America,  civil  war  in,    149,    152,    154, 

155  ;    Mrs.    Browning's    interest    in, 

152-154  ;  Browning  societies  in,  262 
Anael  in   The  Return   of   the  Druses, 

54-57 
Ancestry  of  Robert  Browning,  1-6 
Andrea  del  Sarto,  165-170,  178,  266 
Apologie    de    Raimond   Sehoud,    Mon- 
taigne's, compared  to  La  Saisia^,  137 
Aprile's  advice  to  Paracelsus,  29 
Aristophanes'  Apology,  204,  222 
Arnold,  Matthew,  125  ;  his  Empedocles 
on    /Etna,    127-129,    135,    185  ;    on 
criticism,  234 
Asolando,    105,    116, 
logue  to,  207,  224 
Asolo,    140,    156,    157 
visit  to,  206,  207 


123 


Pro- 


56 
Browning's  last 


Atheism  professed  for  a  time  by  Brown- 
ing, 17 

Athenceum,  The,  review  of  Pauline,  in, 
20  ;  review  of  Paracelsus,  31,  ^4 

Atlantic  Monthly,  The,  articles  on  Casa 
Guidi  in,  93  ;  solicits  contributions 
from  Browning,  152 

Atlas,  The,  74 

Aurora  Leigh,  56,  78,  94,  101,  102 

Australia,  Browning  society  in,  261 


Balaustion's  Adventure,  194,  204 

Baltimore,  Browning  society  in,  261 

Bank  of  England,  Robert  Browning  III. 
clerk  in,  2 

Barrett,  Miss  Arabel,  Browning's  affec- 
tion for,  198 

Barrett,  Edward  Barrett  Moulton-,  his 
attitude  on  the  marriage  of  his  child- 
ren, 3  ;  his  relations  with  his  child, 
ren,  65-70,  84-88 

Barrett,  Mrs.,  mother  of  Elizabeth  Bar- 
rett Browning,  69,  70 

Battle  of  Marathon,  The,  Mrs.  Brown- 
ing's first  poem,  67 

Beauclere  Castle,  202 

Bells  and  Pomegranates  reviewed  by 
Margaret  Fuller,  262 

Beranger,  meeting  with,  203 

Berdoe,  Dr.  Edward,  on  Paracelsus,  21, 
25,  26,  28  ;  on  Sordello,  35  ;  his  an- 
alysis  of  Mr.  Sludge,  the  Medium, 


76 


flnbcy. 


Berdoe,  Dr.  Edward,  —  Continued. 
99,  loo;  on  Andrea  del  Sarto,   \66, 
167  ;  on  Pictor  Ignotus,  171  ;  on  the 
study  of  Browning,  270-272 

Birrell,  Augustine,  on  the  vitality  of 
Browning's  work,  21 1 

Bishop  Bloiigi-ani's  Apology,  153,  136, 
225,  206 

"  Bishop  Orders  his  Tomb  in  St.  Praxed's 
Church,  The,"  144,  145 

Black-wood's  Magazine,  criticism  of 
Mrs.  Browning's  early  poems  in,  76,  77 

Blagden,  Miss  Isa,  Browning's  friend- 
ship with,  155 

Blot  in  the  'Scutcheon,  A,  41,  45,  53, 
57  ;  Mr.  Symons's  criticism  of,  58  ; 
psychological  defect  in,  59,  61,  110, 

'95 

Boston,  Browning  society  of,  260,  201 

Bourgeois  Gallery  of  Paintings,  10 

Boyd,  Hugh,  71,  72,  75 

Brittany,  Browning's  visits  to,  199-201 

Bronson,  Mrs.,  207 

Browning,  Mrs.,  her  marriage  to  the 
poet's  father,  6  ;  her  purchase  of  Shel- 
ley's works  for  the  poet,  1 1 

Browning,  Elizabeth  Barrett,  her  criti- 
cism on  Sordello,  3  3  ;  her  criticism  on 
actors  and  actresses,  60  ;  popular 
conception  of,  64  ;  date  of  her  birth, 
65  ;  her  ancestry,  65,  66  ;  her  rela- 
tions with  her  father,  67,  88  ;  her  first 
poem,  67 ;  her  childhood,  70 ;  her 
early  reading,  70  ;  her  early  illness, 
73  ;  death  of  her  brother,  73,  74  ;  her 
theory  of  rhyming,  75,  76  ;  her  man- 
nerisms, 75-77  ;  her  nervous  excita- 
bility, 82  ;  her  engagement  to  Brown- 
ing, 85  ;  her  marriage,  85,  86  ;  her 
income,  90  ;  her  housekeeping,  91  ; 
her  habits  of  work,  91,  92  ;  her 
married  life,  90-104  ;  Mrs.  Ritchie's 
description  of,  98 ;  her  spiritualistic 
tendencies,  99,  100  ;  her  delight  in 
travel,  103,  104  ;  her  interest  in  the 
cause  of  freedom,  149-154 

Browning,  Reuben,  his  reminiscences  of 
Robert  Browning  IV.,  3,  4 


Browning,  Robert,  I.,  ancestor  of  the 
poet,  I,  2 

Browning,  Robert,  111.,  grandfather  of 
the  poet,  2,  3 

Browning,  Robert,  IV.,  father  of  the 
poet,  3-6 

Browning,  Robert,  ancestry  of,  1-6  ; 
his  description  of  his  father,  4,  5  ;  his 
intellectual  inheritance  from  his  father, 
5,  6  ;  his  acknowledgment  of  his 
father's  influence,  0  ;  birth  of,  7  ;  his 
description  of  his  birthplace,  7  ;  his 
earliest  favourite  books,  8  ;  his  edu- 
cation, 8-10,  18  ;  first  verses,  9  ; 
Keats's  influence  on,  10,  11  ;  Shel- 
ley's influence  on,  10-17  ;  his  Essay 
on  Shelley,  12  ;  his  estimate  of  Shel- 
ley, 13-16  ;  Pauline,  17-21  ;  Para- 
celsus, 21-31  ;  Sordello,  31-39  ;  his 
first  drama,  31,  32  ;  meeting  with 
Macready,  32  ;  on  Sordello's  com- 
plexity, 37  ;  his  dramas,  39-63  ;  his 
interest  in  moral  issues,  43-46  ;  his 
first  letter  to  Miss  Barrett,  78  ;  his  en- 
gagement to  her,  85  ;  his  marriage, 
85,  86;  his  married  life,  90-104; 
his  habits  of  work,  97  ;  his  manner 
of  talking,  97,  98  ;  his  temperament, 
99  ;  his  feeling  toward  children,  117; 
his  ethical  teaching,  122-138  ;  Ger- 
man strain  in,  139;  his  poems  on 
music  and  painting,  159-185  ;  com- 
pared to  Gladstone,  1 93  ;  his  leniency  of 
judgment,  iq6  ;  his  sonnet  to  Fitz-Ger- 
ald,  196,197  ;  his  trips  to  Brittany,  199- 
201  ;  his  appearance  in  later  life,  203  ; 
his  methods  of  work  in  later  life,  204  ; 
his  habits,  205  ;  his  return  to  Asolo, 
207  ;  his  visit  to  his  son  in  Venice, 
207  ;  his  death,  208  ;  his  burial,  208  ; 
his  letter  on  Browning  societies,  273 

Browning,  Robert  Barrett,  his  references 
to  his  grandfather,  3  ;  C.  J.  Moulton- 
Barrett's  criticism  of  him,  87  ;  owner 
of  Casa  Guidi,  93  ;  date  of  his  birth, 
94  ;  education  of,  186  ;  his  meeting 
with  Beranger,  203  ;  Browning's  last 
visit  to,  207 


Unbey. 


277 


Browning,  iMiss  Sarianna,  sister  of  the 

poet,  198,  199 
Browning,    Thomas,    ancestor    of    the 

poet,  2 
Browning  and  the  Christian  Faith,  Dr. 

Berdoe'Sj  reviewed    by  Churton  Col- 
lins, 137 
"  Browning  as  a  Dramatic  Poet,"  article 

by  Professor  Henry  Jones,  43 
Browning  Encyclopaedia,  Berdoe's,  34 
Browning  societies,  H.  D.  Trail,  on,  217, 

217  ;  account  of,  259-273 
Bulwer,  Sir  Edward,  48 
Burlingame,    Edward    L.,    criticism    on 

Browning,  162 
Byron,   Lord,  at  school  near  Peckham, 

8  ;  his  influence  on  Browning,  9,  237 
By  the  Fireside,  1x4,   163 


Camberwell,  birthplace  of  Browning, 
7,8 

Camberwell  Edition  of  Browning's 
works,  56,  261 

Cambridge,  Browning  receives  degree  of 
LL.D.  at,  202 

Carlyle,  Thomas,  Mrs.  Browning's  liking 
for,  104 

Casa  Guidi,  Browning's  home  in  Flor- 
ence, 92-94,    157-187 

Charles  1.  in  Stratford,  51 

Chasles,  Philarete,    on   Paracelsus,  235 

Chicago,  Browning  society  in,  261 

Childe  Roland,  164,  219,  271 

Christmas  Eve,  124,  225 

Classical  allusions  in  Browning,  19 

Cleveland  Browning  Club,  261 

Collins,  Churton,  quotation  from  his  re- 
view of  Dr.  Berdoe's  Browning  and 
the  Christian  Faith,  137 

Colomhe's  Birthday,  41  ;  reception  of, 
in  America,  42,  45,  60  ;  dedication 
of,  194 

Confessional,  The,  225 

Conway,  Moncure  D.,  on  Colomhe's 
Birthday,  42 


Corfu  Castle,  Robert  Browning  I.  butler 
at,  1 

Cornell  Browning  Club,  the,  260 

Cornhill,  The,  152 

Cornwall,  Barry,  dedication  of  Co- 
lomhe's Birthday  io,  194 

Corson,  Hiram,  organiser  of  the  Cornell 
Browning  Club,  260 

Cowper,  Countess,  dedication  to,  194 

Coxhoe  Hall,  birthplace  of  Elizabeth 
Barrett  Browning,  65 

Creole,  Browning's  grandmother  a,  2 

Cuniza,  in  Sordello,  33 

Curtis,  G.  W.,  letter  to,  on  Asolo,  206  ; 
his  description  of  an  American  Brown- 
ing Club,  261 


Dame  aux  Came'lias,  La,  performance 

of,  103 
Dante,  33  ;  his  description  of  Sordello, 

34 
Development,  quotation  from,  4,  5 
De  Vera  Gardens,  Browning's  last  home, 

206 
Dickens,    Charles,    his    appreciation    of 

Browning's  work,  3 1 
Djabal,   in  The  Return  of  the  Druses, 

54-57 

Domizia,  in  Luria,  63 

Dowden,  Professor,  on  Sordello,  37  ; 
on  Browning's  later  work,  220-223 

Drama  in  the  first  half  of  the  present 
century,  48 

Drama  of  Exile,  A,  74 

Dramatic  Idylls,  204 

Dramatis  Persons,  129,  187,  219 

Druses,  the,  53,  54  ;  of  Lebanon,  54 

Duchess  of  Cleves,  in  /I  Blot  in  the 
'Scutcheon,  60 

Dulwich,  near  the  birthplace  of  Brown- 
ing, 8 


Easter  Day,  124,  133 
Edinburgh     Review,    The,    review     of 
Strafford,    in,  52 


278 


1ln^ey. 


Edinburgh  University,  Browning's  speech 
at,   188-191  ;   Browning  receives  de- 
gree of  LL.D.  at,  202 
Einsiedeln,  Paracelsus  born  at,  23 
Elizabethan  age  compared  with  the  Vic- 
torian age,  42 
Elvire,  in  Fifine  at  the  Fair,  22 
Empedocles   on   /Etna,    Arnold's,    127- 

129,   135,  138 
Ethical  teaching.  Browning's,  122-138 
Etienne,  Louis,  on  Browning's  theory  of 

poetry,  251-257 
Examiner,  The,  review   of  Paracelsus 
in,  31,  74 


Faust  and  Paracelsus,  22,  23 

Ferishtah's  Fancies,  classical  allusions 
in,  19 

Fifine  at  the  Fair,  22,  no,  132,  134, 
183,  204 

FitzGerald,  Edward,  129-131  ;  his  com- 
ment on  Mrs.  Browning's  death,  196, 

•97 
Flight  of  the  Duchess,  The,  246 
Florence,  61,  92-104,  140,  142,  186 
Flush,  Mrs.  Browning's  dog,  84,  86,  95 
Forster,    John,    his    Life  of  Strafford, 

48-51  ;  his  Life  of  Eliot,  48 
Forster,  Mrs.  John,  on  Forster's  Life  of 

Strafford,  50 
Fox,  his  review  of  Pauline,  20 
Fra  Lippo  Lippi,  165,  169-171 
France,  rule  of  Napoleon  III.  in,  147 
Eraser's  Magazine,  review  of  Pauline 

in,  20,  21 
French  criticisms  on  Browning,  234-258 
Furnivall,  F.  j.,  on  Browning's  ancestry, 
1,2;  on  Jewish  strain  in  Browning, 
6  ;  theory  concerning  Strafford,  48- 
51  ;  Browning's  letter  to,  64,  250  ;  on 
Browning's  death,  263-265,  267,  271 


Gardiner,   Professor,  49 ;    on   histories 

inaccuracy  of  Strafford,  5 1 
Garibaldi,  Mrs.  Browning  on,  150-152 


Garrison,  William  Lloyd,  Mrs.  Brown- 
ing's opinion  of,  152 

Ghibellines,  the,  in  Sordello,  }6 

Gladstone,  William  Ewart,  Browning 
compared  with,  193 

Glasgow,  University  of.  Browning  nom- 
inated to  the  Rectorship  of,  202 

Goethe,  his  influence  on  Browning,  237 

Goldsmith,  Oliver,  his  residence  at  Peck- 
ham,  8 

Gosse,  Edmund,  91,  187,  188,  191 

Guelphs,  the,  in  Sordello,  36 


H 


Hakim    (The),  in  The    Return    of  the 

Druses,  54-57 
Hamlet,  compared  with    Sordello,  35- 

37,  57 
Hardy,  Thomas,  quotation  from,  135 
Herve  Riel,  200 

Hickey,  Miss,  founder  (with  Dr.   Furni- 
vall) of   London    Browning  Society, 

265 
Hohenheim,  P.  A.  T.  B.  von,  the    real 

Paracelsus,  23-27 
Hohenheim,  W.    B.   von,   father  of  the 

real  Paracelsus,  23 
Hope   End,    home  of  Mrs.    Browning's 

childhood,  70 
How  IVe  Carried  the  Good  News  from 

Ghent  to  Aix,  1 62 


Idylls  of  the  King,  Tennyson's,  102,  103 

In  a  Balcony,  61 

"  Incondita,"  MS.  verses  by  Browning, 

9 

Inn  y4lbum,  The,  204,  211;  Henry 
James  on,  213,  214,  267 

Introduction  to  Robert  Browning,  Pro- 
fessor Alexander's,  218 

Ireland,  Mrs.  Alexander,  on  "  A  Toccata 
of  Galuppi's,"  173-176 

Italian  in  England,  The,  225 

Italy,  Browning's  life  in,  139-158 


1ln^ey. 


2  79 


James,  Henry,  review  of  The  Inn  Al- 
bum, 213,  214 

James  Lee's  Wife,  1 12,  200 

Jameson,  Mrs.,  her  friendship  for  the 
Brownings,  90,  95,  96 

jane  Eyre,  its  resemblance  to  Aurora 
Leigh,  loi 

Jewish  strain  in  Browning,  question  of,  6 

Jones,    Henry,  on   Browning's   dramas, 

43 
Jones,  J.  L.,  on  Paracelsus,  26,  27 

K 

Karshish,  124 

Keats,  John,  his  influence  on  Browning, 

10,  1 1 
Kenyon,  F.  G.,  on  Mr.  Barrett's  attitude 

toward  his  children,  3,  64  ;   quoted, 

75,  76 
Kenyon,  John,  69,  78  ;  financial  aid  to 

the  Brownings,  89 
Kingsland,  William  G.,  on  the  Life  of 

Strafford,  50,  51 
King  Victor  and  King  Charles,  140 
Kitton,    F.    G.,    his    article   on    Robert 

Browning  IV.,  3 
Knights  Hospitallers  of  Rhodes,  in  The 

Return  of  the  Druses,  54 
Knowles,  Sheridan,  48 


Lady  Geraldine's  Courtship,  74 
Lady  of  Lyons,  The,  48 
La  Farge,  John,  quotation  from,  184 
Landor,  Walter  Savage,  3 1 ,  32  ;  quota- 
tion from,  107  ;  Browning's  goodness 
to,  117,  118;  his  poem  on  Browning, 
120,  185,  205 
Lardner's  Cabinet  Cyclopaedia,  48-50 
La  Saisia{,  124,  137,  138,  204 
Last  Ride  Together,  The,  112,  219 
Law,  Montagu's  desire  to  have  Brown- 
ing study,  18 
Le  Croisic,  200 

Letters  of  Robert  Browning  and  Eliza- 
beth Barrett,  78-90,  108,  192 


Library  of  the  IVorld's  Best  Literature, 

Warner's,  article  on  Browning  in,  163 

Literary  Anecdotes,  Nicoll  and  Wise,  72 

Locker,  Frederick,  on  Browning's  father, 

5 
London,  University  of,  Browning  at,  18 
London  Browning  Society,  49,  60,  173, 

260,  263 
Long,    Professor,   Browning's    study   of 

Greek  under,  18 
Lost  Bower,  The,  70,  71 
Lost  Mistress,  The,  185 
Love  among  the  Ruins,  163 
Lowell,  James   Russell,   on   Browning's 

plays,  46,  47  ;  on  the  "  physically  in- 
tense school,"  56,  196 
Luria,   45  ;    compared    with    Ion,   48, 

60-63  '-  compared  with  Othello,  61  ; 

dignity  of,  62,  141 
Lyric  Love,  271 
Lytton,  Lord,  48 


M 


Macbeth,  57 

Macready,  William,  his  connection  with 

Browning's    plays,   31  ;     Browning's 

recollection  of,  195 
Madame  Bovary,  Browning's  favourite 

novel,  103 
Manfred  and  Paracelsus,  23 
Mantua,  scene  of  Sordello,  32,  34 
Marot,  quotation  from,  in  Pauline,  18, 

19 
Martin,  Mrs.,  letter  from  Mrs.  Browning 

to,  q6 
Master  Hugiies  of  Saxe   Gotha,  172, 

174,  17^178 
Maud,  Tennyson's,  164 
Mazzini,     letter    from,     104;     attitude 

toward  Italy,  1 50 
Medicine,  teaching  and  practice  of,  by 

Hohenheim,  24,  25 
Meeting  at  Night,  1 6^ 
Memorabilia,  1 1 

Men,  Browning's,  107,  108,  111-113 
Men  and  IVomen,  94,   105  ;  Cardinal 

Wiseman's  review  of,  137 


28o 


Ifnbey. 


Meredith,  George,  on  Browning's  death, 

208 
Mertoun,    Henry,    in    A    Blot    in    the 

'Scutcheon,  58-60 
Middle  Ages,  Browning's  knowledge  of, 

142-146 
Milsand,  M.,  his  friendship  with  Brown- 
ing, 201,  202  ;  on  Browning's  poetry, 

239-251  ;  his  death,  250  ;  Browning's 

friendship  for  him,  250 
Modern    Painters,   Ruskin's,    apprecia- 
tion of  Browning  in,  142-146 
Montagu,     Basil,    his    desire     to     have 

Browning  study  law,  1 8 
Monthly  Repository,  review  of  Pauline 

in,  20 
Morgan,    Appleton,    on    Browning   and 

Shakespeare  societies,  200-270 
Morning    Herald,     The,    criticism   of 

Strafford  in,  53 
Morning  Post,  The,  criticism  of  Straf- 
ford in,  53 
Moulton-Barrett,  C.  J.,  letters  from,  87, 

88 
Mr.  Sludge,  the  Medium,  99 
Murray,  Miss  Alma,  in  the  part  of  the 

Duchess  of  Cleves,  60 
Music,  Browning's  study  of,  9,  10;  his 

poems  on,  159-185 
Music,  criticism  of  Browning  in,   160  ; 

article  on   "  Robert     Browning   as   a 

Musician  "  in,  1 78 
My  Star,  185 

N 

Napoleon  Ml.,  Emperor,  146-153,  155 
Normandy,    Browning's   visits  to,  199- 

202 
Northern  Farmer,  The,  Tennyson's,  228 


One  IVord  More,  161,  162 

Ormerod,  Miss  Helen,  on  Andrea  del 
Sarto  and  Abt  Vogler,  178-182 

Orr,  Mrs.  Sutherland,  her  Life  and  Let- 
ters of  Robert  Browning,  5,  8,  9  ;  on 
Shelley's  influence  over  the  poet,  1 1  ; 


on  The  Athenceum's  reviem  of  PauU 

ine,  20,  198 
Othello  compared  with  Luria,  6\ 
Oxford,    Browning  receives    degree  of 

D.C.L.  at.  202 


Pacchiarotto,  204 

Painting,  Browning's  poems  on,  159-185 

Pall  Mall  Gazette,  The,  Dr.  Furnivall's 
letter  in,  48  ;  its  "  short  poems  com- 
petition," 224 

Paracelsus,  description  of,  21-31  ;  re- 
viewed in  The  Examiner,  31;  re- 
viewed in  The  Athenceum,  31,  ^^^ 
37,  123.  235,  256 

Parleyings,  classical  allusions  in,  19 

Patriot,  The,  225 

Paris,  Browning's  visit  to,  104 

Pauline,  quotations  from,  7,  11;  Shel- 
ley's influence  in  producing,  1 1  ; 
when  published,  17;  description  of, 
18-21,  37,  105,  163  ;  revision  of,  206 

Peckham  district,  where  Browning  spent 
his  boyhood,  7,  8 

Philadelphia,  Browning  society  of,  261 

Pictor  Ignotus,  165,  171 

Piedmont,  153 

Pied  Piper  of  Hamelin,  The,  1 1 7 

Pierce,  Professor,  on  Master  Hugues  of 
Saxe  Gotha,  1 76- 1 78 

Pippa  Passes,  compared  with  Paracel- 
sus, 22,  1 12,  163,  206,  225 

Pisa,  Browning's  home  in  the  CoUegio 
at,  91 

Poems  of  1844,  72,  74,  78 

Poetics,  105 

Poet  Lore,  quotation  from,  49 

Pompilia's  monologue  in  The  Ring  and 
the  Book,  22 

Pornic,  scene  of  James  Lee's  Wife,  200 

Primum  Ens  Sanguinis,  by  Hohenheim, 
25 

Prince  of  Hohenstiel-Schwangau,  The, 
146-149,  155,  204 

Princess,  The,  discussion  of  the  "  wo- 
man problem  "  in,  114 


flnbey. 


281 


Prometheus,  Mrs.  Browning's  translation 

of,  72,  73 
Prospice,  115,  125 
Furgatoiio,  II,  53,  34 


Quarterly   Review,    The,   criticism    of 
Mrs.  Browning's  poems  in,  74 


Rabbi  hen  E^ra,  126-130 

Ready,  Mr.,  the  poet's  schoolmaster,  8, 

18 
Red   Cotton  Night-Cap  Country,  201, 

204,  211,  212 
Relfe,  John,  Browning's  music  teacher, 

10 
Renaissance,  the.  Browning's  l<nowledge 

of,  140-146 
Return  of  the  Druses,  The,  45,  55-57 
Rezzonico  Palace,  the,  home  of  Brown- 
ing's son,  157  ;  death  of  Browning  at, 

207 
Ring  and  the  Book,  The,  compared  with 

Paracelsus,  22,   110,    115,    120,   141, 

203,  211,  217-221,  253-256 
Ritchie,    Mrs.,    her    description    of   the 

Brownings,  98,  99  ;  her  IVhite  Cotton 

Night-Cap  Country,  201 
Rolandin,  contemporary  of  Sordello,  33 
Romano,  Ezzelino  da,  sister  of  Cuniza, 

M 
Rossetti,   D.   G.,  his  recognition  of  the 

authorship  of  faw//;/^,  21,  104,  159 
Royce,    Professor,     his    "  Problems    of 

Paracelsus,"  22,  23,  29,  124 
Rubai'iydt  of  Omar  Khayyam,  the,  1 29- 

•3',  13=; 
Ruskin,  John,  his  description  of  Camber- 
well,  7,  8  ;  Mrs.  Browning's  letter  to, 
66,  104  ;  his  tribute  to  Browning's 
knowledge  of  the  Middle  Ages,  142- 
146 


St.  Andrews,  Browning's  nomination  to 
Rectorship  of,  202 


St.  Aubin,  Browning's  summer  visits  to, 
201 

St.  Bonifazio,  Count  Richard  de,  hus- 
band of  Cuniza,  33 

St.  Giles,  parish  of,  birthplace  of  Brown- 
ing, 7 

St.  Michael,  island  of,  208 

St.  Paul's,  Dean  of,  on  Sordello,  32 

Sand,  George,  Mrs.  Browning's  impres- 
sion of,  104 

Saul,  118,  119,  124,  164,  165;  its 
beauty  of  workmanship,  249 

Science,  article  on  ' '  Shakespeare  Socie- 
ties "  in,  266 

Selections,  194 

Seraphim  and  Other  Poems,   The^  72, 

74 

Shakespeare,  comparison  of  Browning 
with,  42,  44 

Sharp,  Mr.,  on  Shelley's  influence  over 
Browning,  11;  on  the  difference  in 
method  between  Shakespeare  and 
Browning,  42,  43  ;  on  The  Return  of 
the  Druses,  56 

Shelley,  P.  B.,  his  influence  on  Brown- 
ing, 10-17,  252 

Signatures,  doctrine  of,  25 

Sonnets  from  the  Portuguese,  77,  91,  92 

Sordello,  description  of,  31-39;  Mrs. 
Browning's  criticism  on,  33  ;  com- 
pared with  Hamlet,  35-37  ;  Dr.  Ber- 
doe  on,  35  ;    Professor  Dowden  on, 

37  ;  odd  words  in,  38  ;  dedication  of, 

38  ;  popular  interest  in,   38,  40,   53, 
140,  141,  206,  225 

Soul's  Tragedy,  A,  61 
Spiritualism,   Browning's  views  on,  99, 
100  ;  Mrs.   Browning's  belief  in,  99- 
101 
Sporades,  the,  the  home  of  the  Druses,  54 
Statue  and  the  Bust,  The,  109 
Stead,    Mr.,    on    Browning's  popularity 
with  the  plain  people,  224,  225  ;  on 
the  study  of  Browning's  poetry  in  the 
Walworth  schools,  262 
Stedman,  E.  C,  his  criticism  on  Brown- 
ing, 21,  22,  109,  231  ;  on  Browning 
societies,  259,  260 


282 


Unbey. 


Stevenson,  Robert  Louis,  on  the  quali- 
ties of  a  good  play,  44 

Stones  of  Venice,  quotation  from,  145 

Story,  W.  W.,  Browning's  study  with, 
160,  187 

Strafford,  32  ;  early  success  of,  on  the 
stage,  41  ;  collapse  of,  41,  44  ;  based 
on  Forster's  Life  of  Strafford,  48-51  ; 
preface  to,  50  ;  historical  inaccuracy 
of,  51  ;  sentimentality  in,  52  ;  criti- 
cised in  the  Edinburgh  Review,  52  ; 
criticised  in  The  Times,  The  Morning 
Post,  and  The  Morning  Herald,  53, 

74 

Summing  Up,  1 52 

Swinburne,  Algernon  C,  his  apprecia- 
tion of  Browning's  poetry,  108 

Symons,  Arthur,  on  The  Return  of  the 
Druses,  56 ;  on  ^  Blot  in  the 
'Scutcheon,  58 


Taine,  Hippolyte,  quotation  from,  78 

Talfourd,  Serjeant,  dinner  given  by,  32  ; 
his  Ion,  48 

Tennyson,  Alfred,  104,  122  ;  dedication 
oi  Selections  to,  195;  his  style  con- 
trasted with  Browning's,  228  ;  known 
in  America  earlier  than  Browning,  262 

Texte,  Joseph,  criticism  oi  Aurora  Leigh, 
78 

Thaxter,  Levi,  his  zeal  in  the  study  of 
Browning,  262 

Tilton,  Theodore,  Mrs.  Browning's  let- 
ters to,  149-154 

Times,  The,  criticism  of  Strafford  in, 
53  ;  quotation  from,  188-191 

Tittle,  Margaret,  grandmother  of  Brown- 
ing, 2,  3,  1^8 

Toccata  of  Gal uppi's,  A,  172,  173 

Traill,  H.  D.,  on  Browning's  later  work, 
2 1 5-2 1 8 


Tresham,    Mildred,    in   A  Blot  in   the 

'Scutcheon,  58-61 
Trithemius,  teacher  of  Paracelsus,  24 
Two  Poets  of  Croisic,  The,  201 


U 


Uncalculating  Soul,  The,  by  J.  L.Jones, 

26,  27 


Valence,  in  Colomhe's  Birthday,  42 
Vegetarianism  practised  by  the  poet,  17 
Venice,  municipality  of,  157,  206-208 
Victorian  age  compared  with  the  Eliza- 
bethan, 42 
Victorian  Poets,  The,  E.  C.  Stedman's, 
quotation  from,  231,  259 


W 


Wagner,  Richard,  comparison  of  Brown- 
ing with,  176 

Wales,  Browning  society  in,  261 

Walworth,  its  Browning  society,  262 

Warwick  Crescent,  Browning's  home 
in,  186,  187  ;  Browning's  removal 
from,  206 

Wentworth,  in  Strafford,  44 

Westminster  Abbey,  Browning's  burial 
in,  208,  209 

Wiedemann,  William,  grandfather  of 
Browning,  6,  7 

IVine  of  Cypress,  1 1 3 

IVith  Charles  Avison,  172-174 

Women,  Browning's,  105,  106,  110-115 

Woodyates  Inn,  Thomas  Browning  inn- 
keeper of,  2 

Woollen,  law  for  encouragement  of 
manufactures  of,  2 

Wordsworth,  William,  31,  32;  his  in- 
fluence  on  Browning,  237 

IVorstof  It,  The,  116 


JSelless^Xettree 


BROWNING,    POET  AND  MAN 

A  Survey.  By  Elisabeth  Luther  Gary.  With  25  illustrations 
in  photogravure  and  some  other  illustrations.     Large  8^  gilt 

top  (in  a  box)  •  $3  75 

Popular  Edition,  illustrated,  8°  .  .  .  . 
"  It  is  written  with  taste  and  judgment.  .  .  .  The  book  is  exactly  what  it  ought 
to  be,  and  will  lead  many  to  an  appreciation  of  Browning  who  have  hitherto 
looked  at  the  bulk  of  his  writings  with  disgust.  ...  It  is  beautifully  illustrated,  and 
the  paper  and  typography  are  superb.  It  is  an  edition  de  luxe  that  every  admirer 
of  Browning  should  possess,  being  worthy  in  every  way  of  the  poet," — Chicago 
Eveniner  Post. 

TENNYSON 

His  Homes,  His  Friends,  and  His  Work.  By  Elisabeth  Luther 
Gary.  With  18  illustrations  in  photogravure  and  some 
other  illustrations.    Second  edition.     Large  8°,  gilt  top  (in  a 

box)  $3  75 

^Popular  Edition,  illustrated,  8°        .        .        .        . 

"The  multitudes  of  admirers  of  Tennyson  in  the  United  States  will  mark  this 
beautiful  volume  as  very  satisfactory.  The  text  is  clear,  terse,  and  intelligent,  and 
the  matter  admirably  arranged,  while  the  mechanical  work  is  faultless,  with  art 
work  especially  marked  for  excellence." — Chicago  Inter-Ocean. 

THE   ROSSETTIS  :   DANTE   GABRIEL  AND  GHRISTINA 

By  Elisabeth  Luther  Gary.  With  27  illustrations  in  photogra- 
vure and  some  other  illustrations.  Large  8°,  gilt  top  (in  a 
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"  The  story  of  this  life  has  been  told  by  Mr.  Hall  Caine,  Mr.  William  Sharp,  Mr. 
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furnish,  has  turned  it  to  better  advantage  than  they  were  capable  of  from  their  per- 
sonal relation  to  its  perplexing  subject." — Mail  and  Express 

PETRARCH 

The  First  Modern  Scholar  and  Man  of  Letters.  A  Selection  from 
his  Correspondence  with  Boccaccio  and  other  Friends.  De- 
signed to  illustrate  the  Beginnings  of  the  Renaissance. 
Translated  from  the  original  Latin  together  with  Historical 
Introductions  and  Notes,  by  James  Harvey  Robinson,  Pro- 
fessor of  History  in  Columbia  University,  with  the  Collabor- 
ation of  Henry  Winchester  Rolfe,  sometime  Professor  of 
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.  .  .  The  book  is  a  work  of  sound  scholarship,  destined  to  be  of  practical  service  to 
the  student,  and  it  has  the  lighter  qualities  which  will  commend  its  learning  to  the 
general  reader." — N.  Y.  Tribune. 


G.  P.  PUTNAM'S  SONS,  New  York  and  London 


^y  laariutt  '^nvlnnA 


Some  Colonial  Homesteads 

And  Their  Stories.  •  With  86  illustrations.  8°,  gilt 
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More   Colonial  Homesteads 

And  Their  Stories.  With  81  illustrations.  8°,  gilt 
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Where  Ghosts  Walk 

The  Haunts  of  Familiar  Characters  in  History  and 
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The  first  issues  are  : 

Charlotte  Bronte.    William  Cowper. 
Hannah  More.  John  Knox. 

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G.  P.  PUTNAM'S  SONS,  New  York  and  London 


14  DAY  USE 

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